The Oddest of Couples
by Fyrie
Summary: A series of 1500-word vignettes about random odd couples in the Harry Potter verse, care of discussions that I nosily honed in on, on Fictionalley Park (14th vignette added - March 24th)
1. Minerva and who?

Muttering the password to the large painting that served as a door to her hidden bedchamber, Minerva McGonagall gave the pair of strict-looking school teachers in the frame a smile as the painting swung open.

The room beyond was already filled with a warm glow, suggesting that her lover was already home.

Gliding through the doorway, she raised a hand and removed her hat, hanging it on the hat-stand that stood just to the left of the door. 

Hopefully, she mused, as she flicked a speck of dust off the brim, she wouldn't have made too much noise. She didn't want to wake the person who shared her chambers and it was awfully late.

No sound came from the half-open door on the opposite side of the room.

To the right, a bookshelf stood from floor to ceiling, crammed to overflowing with books of all ages, shapes and sizes, a combined collection that they had put together in the twenty years that they had been together.

The left wall of the room was in a similar state, books and objects from their classes strewn all over the shelves and the large desk, which stood against the wall, seldom used, because it was simply so cluttered.

"You're late, dear," a sleepy voice spoke from the large, comfortable seat in from of the fireplace, that stood in the middle of the right wall of the room. "I thought you would have been back hours ago."

"Unfortunately, I had an errand to run," Minerva sighed, unfastening the collar of her robes, shrugging out of her heavy overrobes. "With everything that's going on, I thought I best check that our illusive Mister Potter and his friends were actually where they were meant to be."

"You do too much sometimes, Minerva," her lover said, rising from the seat and motioning for McGonagall to take her place, closing a book that was held in hands as marked by age as Minerva's own. "Sit down. I'll get you a cup of tea or... something a little stronger?"

Smiling wearily, Minerva replied, "Tea would be fine."

She sat down in the large, comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, practically sinking into the thick cushions, a sigh of pleasure escaping her as she took the weight off her feet for the first time all day.

With all the fuss being made of the Sirius Black escape and break in to the castle, she had been run off her feet with the dual duties as Head of Gryffindor, the house most under threat, and the duties of Deputy Head Mistress.

How Albus coped with the daunting post of Head master, she sincerely hoped she would never have to learn.

"I must say, that little display at the Christmas dinner was...interesting. I was almost convinced that you were a believer," Minerva chuckled at the half-amused tone in her lover's voice, as the teacups from their small cupboard were rattled together.

"You know what my views on divination are, love," she replied, leaning around the side of the chair. "Don't believe that a little Christmas feast will ever make me less open about them. I maintain that it is all a load of sanctimonious twaddle and I simply decided that I could no longer keep my opinion concealed."

"Severus found it rather amusing, the sweet little fellow."

Minerva snorted. "He would, the tight-arsed git," she muttered, turning back to the fire that was crackling cosily in the grate. Her eyes were frightfully heavy and she smothered a yawn.

"My, my, Minerva, you really are in quite the snippy mood tonight, are you not?"

Green eyes lifted to blue, which were twinkling behind glasses. A cup of steaming tea was placed in the Transfiguration Teacher's hands and she sipped it with a weary exhalation. "It has been a rather long day," she admitted.

"Then you best finish that and get to bed," her lower murmured, reaching down and deftly unpinning the tight knot of hair on top of McGonagall's head, loosening the black strands and stroking familiar fingers through them.

The thick waves fell loosely around McGonagall's pale cheeks, luxurious, soft and dark. Fingertips massaged Minerva's scalp and she closed her eyes, smiling a little, the light touch making her even more comfortable and sleepy.

"You really are very good at that, love," she sighed, sipping a little more of the hot sweet tea. A groan escaped her as the hands slid down her neck and started to ease the tension out of her shoulders. "And that..."

"You always say that, dear," the soft murmur came back to her.

Drinking her tea slowly, savouring every warming mouthful, Minerva McGonagall stretched out her cold toes towards the dancing fire, heat spreading through her, her lover's hands warm and soothing on her tightly-strung muscles.

"You're very tense," the murmur broke the silence that had only been disturbed by the crackle of the fire.

"And you're surprised?"

There was a cluck of sympathy. "Not in the slightest. With everything that has been happening, I'm rather surprised you aren't far tenser than this...finished your tea?"

"Mmm."

"Would you like me to read your leaves for you?" the teasing tone in the voice above her didn't stop Minerva from flashing a tired, mock-irritated glare at her lover. "You know I couldn't resist it, Min."

"Obviously," McGonagall replied dryly, easing up onto her bare feet, the shaggy hearth rug warm against her cold toes, her green eyes taking in the other's night apparel. "Are you coming to bed?"

"Actually, I thought I would take a spin on Potter's new broomstick, wearing this..."

"And that has certainly giving me the most delightful image to end this wonderful evening on," Minerva chuckled, but sobered quickly. "I do hope I am mistaken in the assumption that it was from Black."

"As are we all, dear. Now," A gesture brief was made towards the bedroom, the door of which was open. "To bed with you!"

"I doubt that I have the energy to argue with you tonight, love," Minerva sighed, rubbing a hand over her face as she made her way through to the cosy bedroom that opened off their living room.

Candles stood, flickering, on the bedside cabinets on either side of the comfortable double bed, in the middle of the room.

Sleep-walking her way through her night time routine, too tired to concentrate on it, she donned her nightshirt and nightcap, her long, black hair pulled back in a loose braid at the nape of her neck. 

"You really are tired, aren't you, dear?" her lover noted, as she practically fell into the bed, hauling the white sheets and burgundy blankets over her body with a grunt.

"For a diviner of the ethereal plains, you really do have a talent for stating the obvious sometimes, Sybill," Minerva muttered drowsily, as her lover climbed into the bed beside her, the mattress shifting beneath her.

Sybill Trelawny chuckled. "There's my darling little sceptic talking," she replied, extinguishing the candles on the bedside desk with a flick of her wand. Lying down, she spooned against Minerva's body, one arm sliding comfortably around her long-time lover's waist. "Do you think they suspect anything, after your little display?"

"Hardly my display alone, Sybill," Minerva sighed, as Sybill's chin came to rest on her shoulder, her lover's cheek warm against hers. "'The first to leave the table will be the one to die', indeed..." 

Sybill's lips curved in a smile against Minerva's cheek. "Ah, yes, but did you see the looks on their faces? And the mad axe-man in the hallway...honestly, Albus wonders why we refuse to eat together..."

"The pupils would expect us to kill each other," Minerva laughed softly.

A light kiss was dropped on her cheek. "That would never happen, dear," Sybill sighed, pressing closer to Minerva's body. "We would have to leave it to Severus to poison us both."

"And he would, as well."

"If only he knew," Sybill said, chuckling again. "Poor little Sev just thinks we're a pair of bitter old crows with nothing better to do than insult and deride one another."

"Whose to say he would be wrong?" Minerva smiled sleepily, her cool feet getting rapidly warmed up by her lover's be-socked toes. "We really are a rather odd-couple, aren't we, love?"

Another light kiss was dusted over her cheek. "And I wouldn't dream of having it any other way," There was a pause. "See it, maybe," she added in a teasing tone.

"Sybill!"

"And I love you too, Minerva," the Divination Professor laughed.

"You're dreadful."

"You're grumpy."

"You're an awful seer."

"You leave cat hair everywhere."

"I love you, Sybill."

"And I you, Min."

"Sleep well, Sybill."

"Sweet dreams, Minerva." 

Minerva sighed contentedly as they shared a brief kiss.

The last part of their daily routine was completed, as it had been every night for nearly twenty years, and she closed her eyes, letting sleep take her, comfortable, safe and warm in the arms of her lover. 


	2. Redhaired good girl & blondhaired bad bo...

Making sure she hadn't been followed by any of the group she was travelling with, the red-haired woman hurried down the winding lanes of Diagon Alley, turning into the brick-walled passage that lead to Knockturn Alley.

She had, of course, made appropriate excuses, but then, she always had plenty to spare, when she had business to attend. 

Business down in Knockturn Alley's gloomiest haunts. 

It was a grim place to visit, no matter how often she had passed through. The once-red bricks of the walls were stained with soot and grime, blackened so deeply that not even a trace of their original colour shone through.

The arched passages were dull and dank, the only light coming from the far ends of the streets, barely enough to even see where you were going.

Keeping to the shadows, she gasped when a hand caught her by the elbow, whipping around to find a familiar face gazing down at her, a heartbeat before equally familiar lips came down and greeted hers.

The kiss was intense, sweet and delicious as only forbidden fruit could be.

It had been building since the moment they had parted, so many long weeks earlier, before they had been forced to separate and rejoin their families, to depart from platform Nine and Three Quarters.

"You managed to slip away," he whispered, drawing her to him.

"How could I resist?" she replied huskily. "Its been so long since I've seen you."

"But you don't have long," he finished.

Her brown eyes were full of apology. "They'll be looking for me soon," she replied sadly, shivering as his fingertips brushed her cheek. "And they would probably kill you with their bare hands if they saw us together."

"Ah yes," His lips lifted in a half-smile. "All the Weasley boys. A veritable army."

"Would you just shut up and kiss me?"

The slight smile widened. "Always pleased to oblige a lady," he said, as his lips came down on hers again, her hands sliding up his robed arms to his shoulders, one of his hands fisting in her flaming hair, the other holding her hip, fingers palpating the skin in a sensual rhythm.

Staggering back, she allowed herself to be pressed up against the filthy wall, plunged back into the shadows and away from prying eyes, gasping as his lips came off hers and moved down her throat. A shaking moan escaped her as he nipped the corner of her jaw.

"Don't stop," she whispered desperately, her head sinking back against the wall, her eyes closed. "Please...don't stop..."

"We don't have much time," he reminded her, his lips brushing her ear and making her tremble against him, his body pressed to hers. his teeth scraped over a sensitive spot at the crease of her jaw making her clutch at him.

Brandy-brown eyes opened, dark with need. "We have long enough," she replied softly, one of her hands running down his chest and sliding beneath his robes, his grey eyes closing as she found what she was looking for, his clothing parting beneath her nimble fingers.

"You're a minx, you know," he groaned.

"Only for you," she answered, greedily pulling his hungry mouth back down on hers, the kiss slower and more gentle this time, although no less intense because of it.

A soft mewing sound escaped her throat as she felt one of his familiar hands slowly slid beneath her robes, drawing skirt up, running up her warm thigh, his fingertips as cold as ever.

Shuddering with pleasure as he explored her body, she felt his hand pause and murmured approvingly as his fingers drifted in a circle on her skin, his warm kisses moving across her face.

"Well, well," he breathed hotly against her temple. "You really were eager...this is the first time that we haven't had to...bother..." His words became staccatoed as her hand moved beneath his robes. "With...no underwear..."

"You either," she panted, touching him. "Please...we don't have much time..."

It wasn't exactly the most romantic of settings, that could certainly be said, but she knew she would never feel passion like that in the man above her, as they made love in the shadows of Knockturn Alley.

His hands, lips, face were all buried in her hair one after the other, his breathing halting, seemingly intoxicated by her scent. When free from her hair, his hands roamed her body, making her writhe against him, moaning.

"You're delicious..." he gasped against her ear. "So sweet...so wonderfully sweet..."

Her cheek pressed against his neck, her skin flushed and shimmering with sweat, she couldn't find the words to reply, her fingers biting harder into his back to drive him to a greater passion.

The wall was rough and hard against her back, but she didn't care, her eyes reduced to slits, her mouth open and plaintive little whimpers escaping her with every stroke of her lover's body against hers.

"So good..." she gasped, arching against him dizzily. "So good..."

One hand bunched in her hair and drew her face back to his, their mouths melding together in a scalding kiss, which ripped every last breath from her body as she felt him crash against her.

His lips smothered her cries of pleasure, swallowing them greedily, her shaking hands raking ridges in his back through the thick clothing.

Shaking, still held up between him and the wall, his body still intimately interwoven with hers, she gazed up at him, breathless, a dreamy expression on her face. "I love you," she whispered.

His body moved against hers again, a shudder of pleasure rocketing through her.

"Oh God..."

"Say it again," he panted hoarsely, his hands sliding down her body to hold her fast.

"I love you," she breathed, his mouth burning against her throat.

"Again," he repeated, moving harder against her.

"I love you," her voice was shaking.

"Again..." he gasped, her lips stroking his jugular.

"I love you..."

"Don't stop," he choked out, meeting her mouth in a searing kiss.

"I love you..."

"Truly?" Every word was trembling.

"Yes..." she arched up against him, a gasp escaping her. "I love you!"

"Not him?"

"Only you," she moaned. "Love you... you... love..."

He was shaking violently as he claimed her mouth in a heated kiss. It was fire, power, passion and everything she had always loved in the man moving within her. Breaking away from her lips, he buried his face in her hair.

"I love you," he gasped hoarsely, his lean body jerking wildly against hers, her arms locking tightly around him as he brought their bodies together, pulling her over the edge with him.

Slumping back against the wall, panting and breathless, she felt his hot breath against her sweat-dewed throat, as uneven as her own. One of his hands was spread on the dark wall behind her, his weight braced on it to prevent him from crushing her.

Unwilling to relinquish her hold of him, she buried her face in his broad chest, the familiar masculine scent flooding her senses, always so strong and dominant and so absolutely delicious.

She couldn't say how long they remained like that, only that it felt right, but - all too soon - he drew back and looked down at her.

"You have to go," he said softly, his hand untangling from her fiery hair.

"I wish I didn't, you know," she replied, as their bodies finally parted. Smoothing her clothing and robes down carefully and waiting until he had done the same, she reached up and brought his lips down over hers once more.

"I know," he acknowledged into the kiss. "But you must. You have your place and I have mine."

Stepping back from him, she adjusted her robes. "When can I see you again?"

"We can arrange something I'm sure," he replied softly, one hand rising to straighten a loose curl of hair that was tangled around her ear. "You have an excuse for taking so long?"

She smiled slightly. "We lost Harry when we used Floo powder. I suspected it might happen. Claimed I was looking for him down here."

"Cunning little witch," he chuckled. "You ought to have been a Slytherin."

"Perhaps," she smiled faintly, rising on her toes to claim one last kiss. "You better go as well, before your precious treasure," Sarcasm dripped off the words. "Starts getting concerned about you."

"And we both know that will never happen," her lover said, brushing a last kiss over her lips. "Until next time, ma cher."

"I love you, Lucius," she slowly drew back out of the stretching shadows, leaving him enveloped in them.

His head bowed slightly, he raised his eyes to her and smiled. "And I you, Molly," A wicked glint shone in his eyes. "I'll see you soon...perhaps...Flourish and Blotts in half an hour?"

"I suppose we might just happen be there," Molly Weasley replied, returning the smile, although it was bittersweet. "Forever, Lucius."

"And a day, ma belle."

Turning, she walked away, never looking back.


	3. The Mystery of the Potions Professor

"Good morning, darling!"

It was seven o'clock in the morning and the sun had barely risen over Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but many people were already awake and preparing for the day.

Or attempting to come to consciousness, whichever was considered easiest.

In the bowels of the school, the merry, trilling and frighteningly lively voice had the unpleasant effect of waking anything in it's path that wasn't awake already, by happily chattering amiably about anything or nothing.

Or, in the case of Severus Snape, by singing at full voice in the shower in the Potions Professor's private quarters.

He had shuffled out of the bedroom, pulling on warm dressing robes to stave off the chill of the dungeon, wondering if it was to want to strangle his lover for waking so bloody early every morning.

The door from the shower had swung open and said lover had flounced into the room where the Potions Professor was still in the process of waking, hair hanging in damp ringlets around a beaming face.

The morning light was slitting in through the windows of the room, which were high in the wall, casting a golden glow over the room, except the spot where Snape was, steeped in shadows and practically concealed by the high back of his chair.

Scowling, Severus Snape rustled the newspaper, seated by the fireplace in his living quarters, a cup of hot, strong black coffee on the small table by his arm. "Do you have to be so bloody cheerful?" he demanded.

"When it's a day as wonderful as today? Of course!"

"And what's so wonderful about it?"

"The sun is shining, the birds are chirping! Everything is bright and clear and perfect and look!" A thick book with 'Gilderoy Lockhart' emblazoned on the front, complete with a grinning picture, was held up. "I have a gift for you!" 

Snape arched an eyebrow. "You know where you can stick that," he replied, then added as an afterthought. "Dear."

"I knew you'd like it!"

"I like it," Snape said so sourly that no one but his lover would know he was being anything but deadly serious. "As much as I like accidentally ingesting a dose of dark figweed poison."

"You like it that much?"

Grunting a response, he turned back to the page. "I have six already. Just because you love them..."

"And can you blame me?" his lover laughed, the genuinely jovial sound warming the gloomy room that had been Snape's for so many years. Blue eyes looked down at the mock-modest picture of Lockhart. "My goodness, but he is a good-looking devil, isn't he?"

"Hmm," Snape glowered more pointedly at a page in the paper.

A dazzling smile was sent his way, which only succeeded in making the potions Professor glare more darkly. "Oh, come on, grumpy!" His lover practically bounced across the room and sat down on the arm of his chair. "Don't tell me you don't adore a dose of Gilderoy in the morning!"

Black eyes rose over the newspaper. "Remove your buttocks from the arm of my chair," he said, quiet threat in his voice.

"I always forget how grumpy you are without your caffeine fix," Snape sighed as his lover stood up, but the sigh was immediately smothered by a futile cry of protest, when the newspaper was whipped out of his hands and he found his lap and arms full. Large blue eyes batted at him. "Better?"

"I was reading that," he replied, his eyes hooded as he let his gaze sweep across his lover's youthful features. A pout was directed at him. "Oh, don't pull that ridiculous face. You know I can't abide it."

"And yet you prefer reading that rubbish to dealing with your one and only?"

"I really must find out where you're getting all these absurd notions about you being my one true love from," he sighed. "Its ridiculous, you know. Everyone is aware of the fact that I'm a bitter old bastard who will never be loved by anyone with half a brain cell and you...well, you are impossible, although I'm quite certain the half-brain-cell assessment is rather appropriate in this case."

"Impossible and dim, but a rather good lover, unless I'm sorely mistaken."

"Ah, yes, there is that minor detail..."

It was strange, really, their relationship. 

After all, in their public facade, Snape still appeared to hate absolutely everyone and that didn't stop, even for his lover.

And yet, after one night, a rather impressive fist-fight and a little too much firewhisky, Snape had woken up in the same bed as the one who now shared his chambers.

He couldn't entirely remember how it had all happened, which was probably due to the rather copious amounts of firewhisky he had ingested. However, it meant he was in a physical relationship for the first time in years and it was far too good for him to bother giving up, no matter how obtuse it was.

"So, may I have the newspaper back, or do I have to hex you?"

Lazy blue eyes gleamed at him speculatively, a half-smirk on the perfect pink lips. "Sev, why do you want the paper, when we could be doing so many more interesting things?"

Snape smirked, lazily raising a hand to comb his fingers leisurely through the damp strands of his lover's hair. "I do believe there was an article on the book signing on page three..."

"There is?" The paper rustled wildly, then there was a moment silence. "My, that is a very good photograph, isn't it?"

"You are quite ridiculous, you know."

Blue eyes gazed at him from beneath long-lashed lids. "Oh, admit it, Severus, you would have ignored me if I were any other way."

"Yes, that is probably true," he admitted. "Mind you, I probably would have kept ignoring you if we hadn't gotten very drunk together and then ended up shagging in my room."

There was another merry laugh and his lover wriggled against him. "Although, I'm still not entirely convinced that you don't want to gut me and use my intestines for potions, as I'm obviously so much better at it than you."

"Follow that train of thought a moment longer," Snape interceded calmly. "And I may take your suggestion into serious consideration...and would you be kind enough to extricate yourself from my lap? I would rather like my circulation back."

"Sometimes I don't know why I bother with you," his lover sighed, sliding back onto the floor.

"I really don't know the answer to that one," Snape admitted wryly. "I must admit I would expect you to be taking advantage of all those charming witches who hurl themselves at you."

"Ah, yes, but what would be the challenge there, my dear Severus?" 

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I am a challenge?"

"Well, I did think you were, Severus," the cheerful tone in his lover's voice was no longer as jovial as it usually was. "Until you start thinking a little too hard about the dynamics of our relationship."

Snape came to his feet, puzzled. It wasn't a nice sensation. "What do you mean by that? All we do is shag, then return to our positions in the school, you as a prancing fool and I as the Potions Master. It's as simple as that."

"Ah yes, but you always try and work out why I would take you, instead of all those charming witches, Severus. It was amusing the first four times, but," Baby-blue eyes that were cooler than Snape could recall turned to him. "It does get a little annoying, when you insist on having the same conversation every morning."

Snape was truly baffled.

"Same conversation? Lockhart, you imbecile, what are you talking about?"

"Of course," Gilderoy's smile was far from the broad smile that he had flashed Snape earlier. "You wouldn't remember. You don't even recall how we ended up here that first night. What I had to do to get in. How could you?"

The Potions Professor stared at him, groping desperately through his memories. He... he couldn't find anything that related to his nights spent with Gilderoy Lockhart, aside from the sex. 

Was he going insane or...?

A wand was directed at him and it suddenly made sense.

"Unfortunately, Severus," Gilderoy smiled a thin-lipped, cold smile. "Since I enjoy our physical relationship far too much to give it up, I'm afraid that I will simply have to... I suppose the term would be to change your mind."

Snape's hand slipped to the deep pocket of his robes for his wand.

"Ah, yes, Severus, you'll find your wand on the fireplace, darling," the mocking tone in the blond wizard's voice was actually quite frightening. "I learned not to allow you to arm yourself from the dueling club. You just forget that I always make sure you are unarmed."

"Lockhart," Snape started angrily.

Gilderoy gave him a chilling smile. "Don't worry, Severus, you won't remember a thing," he said, then whispered. "_Obliviate_!"


	4. A Bank Job

A Bank Job

Sensually rising from the chair, Narcissa Malfoy lazily sat down on the edge of the broad ebony desk before her. Sunlight poured in from the windows to her left, surrounding her in an ethereal corona of afternoon light. 

"So we're alone," she murmured, shaking her silky hair back from her face, a seductive smile lifting her lips upwards.

The man seated at the desk leaned back in his chair, one arm propped on the arm, eyebrows rising as she crossed her legs slowly, the edge of her robes falling open to reveal black, stocking-clad legs.

If there was one thing that she knew how to do, a gift she which had been the thing to draw her rich husband to her, it was to take her already stunning looks and make them even more appealing, although it seemed an impossible feat.

"You are very observant, Mrs Malfoy," he noted, a lazy smirk lifting the corner of his lips. "We are, indeed, alone."

Spreading her hands on the surface of the desk, she studied him. "Surely you're not afraid of a Goblin invading this moment, lover," she remarked huskily. "And we know that he won't be back for some time."

"Yes," There was a chuckle. "I did give him quite a lot of paperwork to deal with, didn't I?"

Narcissa nodded, crooking a finger at him. "You are terrible," she said. "But I don't care about him now. I am only interested in a certain rogue before me and the distraction he is willing to provide."

"Distraction, dear one?"

"Mmm."

"What on earth could you mean by that?" There was an unmistakably playful note in his voice. 

Her fingertips brushed the surface of the desk. "This wood does have a rather pleasant texture," she said coyly, gazing at him through her lashes. "I was wondering if you might like to touch it."

"There is something of a more interesting texture I wouldn't mind touching," he answered, eyes twinkling.

Narcissa half-pouted. "But the desk…"

"Dear one, you must realise that a desk in a Gringotts bank office is for one purpose," her companion replied heavily, rising to his feet and placing his hands on either side of her knees.

"Mmm-hmm?" Her hands rose from the wood and wandered up his chest. "And what is that?"

He looked down at them, then at her face. "I think you might be trying to distract me, Mrs Malfoy."

"Me?" Her eyes rounded in shock. "If I wanted to distract you, I would do…"

"Do what, Mrs Malfoy?"

Her lips touched briefly against his.

"That."

A brow rose. "That wasn't very distracting, Mrs Malfoy, and I would like to tell you what a desk is for."

Silvery-grey eyes gazed at him. "And what," she breathed. "Is a desk, in a Gringotts bank office, for?"

Stepping forward, between her parted knees, he let one hand slip under her robes to caress her thigh, the other sliding over her hip and to the small of her back to pull her against him. 

"It definitely would never be used for this," he answered, before kissing her.

Leaning back on the desk, one hand coming down to support herself as they sank back on the dark wood, Narcissa's other hand kneaded the back of her lover's neck, a sigh of pleasure escaping her.

It had truly been far to long since they had been allowed this kind of contact.

"When you say it wouldn't be used for this," she said softly, as he drew back from her lips, bracing himself over her with one hand. "What would you say to it being used for something like…" Her hand slipped between their bodies and he gave her a wolfish grin as she touched certain points of his familiar body through his robes and trousers. "This?"

"I'm sure the Goblins would have a heart attack if they saw that," he admitted, his hand roaming further up her thigh.

Loosening the thong tied at the base of his neck with nimble fingers, she smiled up at him as his glorious long hair cascaded around his shoulders and face. 

He gave his head a toss, sending the strands flying, the sun catching them, making him look wilder and more beautiful than she could remember seeing him, reminding her briefly of the wild unicorns she had seen running free as a child.

"You know," Narcissa murmured, stroking his cheeks as he looked down at her again. "I don't believe we've ever made love in a bank office before. In a pub, yes. In your parents bed, yes. But I don't think we ever quite reached here before."

"Usually, my dear one," he chuckled, lifting her hand to his lips and gently kissing her palm. "Because you were so bloody impatient and we had to stop in the store cupboards or somewhere equally cramped."

"Like now?" she asked, raising herself a little from the surface of the desk and pulling his lips down on hers again.

Had her lover been able – or willing, for that matter, – to pull out of her embrace and break out of the passionate kiss they were sharing, he would most probably have agreed with her assessment of the situation.

However, at present, she was spread beneath him on a desk in an office in Gringotts in the middle of the day in full knowledge that their tryst could be shattered with the return of the third member of the group.

While he had to look professional to the wizarding world on the whole, he certainly wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to use this thoroughly marvellous desk and the woman currently sprawled over it while he had the chance.

Especially given the rather risqué circumstances they were in.

It really was far too kinky and tantalising a chance for him to ignore.

Merlin only knew what the Goblins would say if they accidentally wandered in.

One of Narcissa's slim hands started undoing the buttons of his shirt as he kissed his way down her graceful throat, a shiver running through him as her cool hands spread on the warm expanse of his bare chest.

"You could have warmed your hands up first," he muttered against her lips, which were parted lightly against his. Opening his hooded lids to gaze down at her, the impish twinkle in her grey eyes drew an almost instant smile from him.

"That would be no fun," she murmured, tracing a hand down his chest and stomach as their lips met again.

Her robes were pushed further up her thighs and a moan slipped from her lips to his as his hand slipped between her thighs.

"No knickers, Narcissa?" he remarked with a chuckle as she squirmed against his lazy fingers. "You were expecting this, weren't you?"

Grey eyes narrowed at him. 

"Would you please stop talking and shag me?"

There was a chuckle from her lover. "Always happy to oblige a lady, you know," he replied, as she pushed stands of his hair back from his face. "Especially when she asks so nicely."

"If you don't hurry up, he'll get back before you even start."

He pressed down against her and she arched up, silently begging for his touch. "Would that be a bad thing?" he asked huskily, as their bodies finally came together, her fingers biting into his back.

One of those graceful hands slapped his back. "You know it would be!"

"Don't want to get caught, hmm?" he murmured, drawing her against him.

"It… would be rather…" Her breathing was becoming ragged as he nipped her throat lightly. "Difficult… to explain…"

"I'm sure he would…understand, dear one. After all," his eyes met hers. "You are a very beautiful woman."

"Smooth talker," she murmured into another kiss, her arms sliding around him.

Little was said after that, the lovers intently wrapped up in one another.

That is, until the door squeaked open and the couple on the desk both looked around in surprise at the figure standing in the door. The papers he had been carrying were liberally spilled all over the floor and his eyes were wide.

"I…er…excuse me…"

His face as red as his hair, Bill Weasley pulled back out of his office and slammed the door closed behind him.

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy looked at one another. 

Lucius was the first to start chuckling at the look on their banker's face, Narcissa's own silvery giggle mingling with his.

"The poor boy," he laughed.

"He should have knocked," Narcissa tried to say, her mirth overriding the words.

"It is his office, dear one."

"But still!"

Still chuckling, Lucius brought a hand up to frame his wife's face. "Perhaps we better finish here, dear one. We can continue this at home."

"You're no fun," Narcissa pouted, as he drew away from her body.

Lucius studied her from beneath half-closed lids. "In that case…" he drawled, pulling her to him.

And poor Bill Weasley was forced to avoid his office for another three hours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just because I said they were odd couples didn't mean they were going to be non-canon couples ;) Yes, I said odd, but I didn't say if I meant 'odd' as in an 'unlikely pair of characters' or 'odd' as in 'they have interesting sexual habits'. So…did I fool ya? :D


	5. The Midnight Liaison

He slipped around the edge of the portrait that served as a door, grateful that the Fat Lady was absent. She wouldn't be able to comment on him slipping out of Gryffindor tower in the middle of night.

Slinking into the shadows that licked the walls, he moved – catlike – down the hall, his eyes darting everywhere, making certain that he was unseen and unnoticed by anyone who might be prowling in the corridors.

Part of him wished that he could have made off with Harry's invisibility cloak, to avoid prying eyes when he finally met his lover, but it would have been awkward, trying to get it out of Harry's trunk with no one noticing him.

It would lead to far too many questions and he, for one, wasn't willing to risk losing his chances to slip out unnoticed, when he could be stealthy and achieve the ends as he intended anyway.

It certainly would have been useful, on occasions such as this one, though.

It was a miracle, he knew, that he hadn't been spotted by someone before.

Even when he was being as stealthy as possible, his shocking mass of ginger hair stood out like a beacon, even when he was shielded by the panels of shadows, where stone, fabric and wood bisected the angular slashes of moonlight.

Still, no one had seen him.

Or at least, if they had seen him, they had regarded him as unimportant enough to been dignified with attention, especially in the case of the Bloody Baron, who had occasionally drifted past him on his travels.

His thoughts flitted briefly back to the one he would be betraying most by this liaison.

Hermione.

A pang of guilt lanced at him at the thought of her. Ever since the first day they had met, he had been hers, no matter how much he tried to deny or disprove it. Even though, he had initially had bitter misgivings about her.

She had seemed completely barking mad to him, with hair that stood out in a wild bush that looked like a bird would nest in it. He had almost given into the temptation to take a look to see if his theory was right on more occasions than he could count.

She had been bossy, arrogant, stubborn from what he had seen of her and he hadn't liked her at all.

That was before he knew who she was and what she would come to mean to him…

And now…

Now, he was out of her sight, having slipped away from the common room when he knew no one would be paying attention, knowing that if she ever found out about his love affair, she would be probably shocked and upset.

He didn't want to upset her again, especially with everything that had happened in the previous two years. The mess with Scabbers… Wormtail, the filthy, traitorous rat that he was, had been bad enough.

Upsetting Hermione again was not his intention, but he had someone else, someone he was drawn to inexorably, someone he couldn't ignore, someone who had stolen his heart in a way Hermione never could.

They had first met in the greenhouses.

There had been people pushing, shoving and bustling around for pots and spades and the like, in the way that teenagers were always prone to do and he had looked around the faces lining the potting table and…

She had been there.

Watching him in a way that no one had ever watched him before.

Bright, knowing eyes had stared at him from beneath strangely bushy brows and he had been unable to look away. 

When the class had departed, he had lingered behind. 

So had she.

They hadn't said anything to one another that first, didn't need shallow, empty words as so many did.

Coming together, they had made love amongst the upturned pots, on the bare dirt of the greenhouse floor, late afternoon sunlight slanting in through the clear panes of the glass roof above them.

It had been purely physical.

He wasn't sure if he could call her particular beautiful, but she had drawn him to her, despite the grime that clung to her, a sign of her position and her role within the school as a whole.

Like him, she had someone that she was meant to hold loyally. But, like him, she also broke faith with the one who claimed her, slipping away when he was unawares to meet with her fiery lover.

His eyes gleamed wickedly at the thought of her beneath him. That was why he would never be able to resist her. The way she cried out for him, the way she felt, the way their bodies just… fit together so perfectly.

Continuing down the halls, he took a sharp left, running lightly down the staircase towards the entrance hall, where they had accidentally met the second time, without even having to search for one another.

It was a strange connection they had, he knew that much.

Without needing to say anything, they knew, subliminally, magically, somehow where to find each other at any time of the day or night, but especially at night, when the moon rose and winked benevolently down on them. 

They had their secret places that they would meet and make love until they were both limp with exhaustion.

And there she was, standing in a patch of pale moonlight at the bottom of the stairs, her brilliant eyes capturing his as soon as he was close enough.

He couldn't restrain himself, running down the rest of the stairs and straight to her, burying his face in the thick glorious mass of her hair, the pale wisps and waves full of the scent that was undoubtedly her.

The scent of nature clung to her, although how she could always smell so free and wild, when she was under the same constraints as he, he would never understand. All he knew was that she was perfect.

Her pale, sandy and silvering hair was soft against his cheeks and he nuzzled her throat as she pressed against him.

They seemed utter contradictions for one another, him so energetic, so exuberant, so… young in spirit and in body, while she… 

She would never be called old, not by him at the very least, but she was experienced and older than he was, her uncontrollable silvering hair speaking her age in a way that was belied by the glint in her eyes.

Drawing back, their eyes meets briefly and she inclines her tousled head towards the hall, where they had shared their last brief liaison. His eyes glittered with anticipation, as she started walking, only a step in front of him, but enough to give him the perfect view of her.

His eyes lingered on her sensually-rolling rear and he had to force down the heated desire to leap on her there and then. He would happily have taken her in the dark halls, on the staircases, in the cupboards, anywhere that he possibly could and she knew it too.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, making sure that he knew that she knew she was affecting him, the glimmer in her eyes suggesting that she was in a more playful mood than usual.

No time for pussyfooting around, he decided firmly, quickening his pace and jogging alongside her.

Looking around, to make sure they were unseen, they reached a partially open door and slipped into one of the lesser-known classrooms and pausing in a pale patch of moonlight on the dusty floor, staring at one another for a long moment.

The prelude was always like this.

It was almost a competition for them, a daring challenge to see who would be the one to make the first move and it almost always meant that they lunged towards one another at exactly the same moment.

The moment hung on the air, but before either of them could move, they froze, the sound of shuffling feet in the hallway making him whip around.

"Where are they, my sweet? Have you sniffed them out?"

Filch!

The shuffling came closer, echoed by a moist hacking cough, the sour stench an indicator that he was right about who was about to walk in on their tryst.

A frantic look passed between the lovers and she nodded towards the shadows in the back of the room, a gesture for him to get out of sight, knowing that she is the one that must face him.

Diving under one of the desks, he watched nervously as the door squealed open with agonising slowness.

The hideous old man shuffled in, sniffing the air like some kind of slobbering dog.

"Anyone here, my sweet?" he asked, looking down at Mrs Norris, where she still sat in the patch of moonlight.

In response, she got to her feet and slunk out the room, as if she owned the place.

Crookshanks had never been more proud to be her mate.


	6. Books and Notes

It wasn't a likely meeting spot.

But then, for this particular couple, no spot was really likely.

However, on this particular occasion, the library had been selected, fairly late in the evening, when it was unlikely that anyone but them would be there.

Unfortunately, there always had to be a few odd people here and there in the massive library: a few Ravenclaws were moving around the shelves, in pairs, which was their kind of romance.

However, the Slytherin and Gryffindor couple involved in an affair didn't class their relationship as normal, even if it was classed as that by the Ravenclaw standards. 

They had a secluded corner, somewhere that they would be unnoticed by pupils and teachers, hidden by the shelves and books, somewhere that the librarian, Madam Pince, would ignore them, hardly expecting anything out of the ordinary to happen.

How wrong she was.

As they had waited for the library to clear, they had feigned interest in their books, eyes on the pages, although both were more than aware of their partner on the other side of the broad table.

Lanterns added a soft, buttery glow to the immense room, the scent of dust, magic and ancient parchments a strangely potent aphrodisiac.

A pen scratched quietly on a sheet, which was slipped across the table, neither of them even raising their eyes as the words were passed from hand to hand.

This was how it had begun, in a class, when they knew that no one was looking. One of them had casually dropped a note on the other's desk in Potions, while walking past, requesting a meeting, so they could sort out their... 'problems' with one another.

When the Slytherin - the other a fairly famous Gryffindor - had arrived, he had not expected to be swept up in an intense relationship that had been ongoing for several weeks now.

Yes, insults had been exchanged that first night, but the first kiss that had been shared between them...

He had not expected it, caught completely off-guard when the strangely-fragile-looking Gryffindor had pressed against him and kissed him in a way that he had never been kissed before.

Tongues had met and battled, the room they were in rising in temperature until it felt like they had been plunged into the bowels of hell, but were quite happy to wallow there, as long as the kiss never ended.

That was the first of many.

Wrong, yes. 

Everything his father would despise incarnate, yes.

The most delicious thing he had ever done, without a doubt.

Brief fumblings and greedy kisses behind paintings, in deserted classrooms and anywhere possible had become a staple aspect of their...unusual relationship, while - by the light of day - they feigned loathing for one another.

The note was what had started it.

Passing notes had become a regular occurrence, as had their meetings.

Their eyes lifted, met briefly, as an ink-smudged hand picked up the note. Opening the note slowly, dark brown eyes slowly slid down the words there, a small suggestion of a naughty smile reaching normally serious lips.

"In a library?" The whisper was barely even audible. "For shame!"

The smirk on the Seeker's lips, across the table, was purely wicked. It had the effect of making his lover feel that clothing was definitely not a necessity at present, which had the effect of causing a deep flush of pleasure and embarrassment.

Further down the library, a couple of Ravenclaws departed, loaded down with large quantities of books, leaving the couple alone, at their table in one of the far corners of the library, hidden by the shelf units.

The Seeker rose, rounded the table and - true to his name - sought out his lover's eagerly waiting lips. His slender, skilful hands slid into almost curly dark hair as their mouths came together.

Fingers that had closed around a chilly snitch on more occasions than his lover could count twisted through tendrils of brown hair as their lips parted and their tongues met in an intimate dance.

In the quiet of the library, their muffled breathing sounded deafening. The only reason they knew they would not be heard because of the howling wind whistling past the windows, the winter chill doing nothing to calm their ardour.

The occupied chair was pushed back from the table forcefully. 

It connected with the edge of the bookshelf behind them with a crack, both of them pulling back from one another and glancing rapidly down the library to check the whereabouts of the librarian.

She seemed oblivious to their presence, sorting through a large stack of books.

"Maybe," the Slytherin suggested, a wicked glimmer in his eyes. "We should use the table. It doesn't move as easily as the chair."

The Gryffindor looked along at the large, solid, oak table, then at the equally solid chair, grinning a little. "Are you sure? You are...kind of enthusiastic, you know."

"Bugger the furniture, in that case," the Slytherin said, standing up and pulling the Gryffindor closer to him. Their mouths met again, nimble hands tangling through thick, brown hair, the edge of the table bumping against their legs.

The kisses grew rapidly more heated, hands sliding under robes and fumbling with buttons. Questing fingers came in contact with warm skin and they broke apart again, panting and flushed.

"You know Pince'll kill us if she catches us," Leaning sideways, brown eyes darted anxiously around the broad edge of the shelf unit, but Pince was still busy with her stack of books.

"Then we'll have to make sure she doesn't catch us, won't we?" the reply came, warm lips meeting again.

"Obviously..." There was a pause between kisses as ink-stained fingertips lingered on the Seeker's narrow, pale-skinned chest. "I remember when you were...in me the first time..."

The Seeker studied his lover. "You do?"

"You thought I wouldn't remember?" Eyes rose over brown eyes. "It is my body, you know. I do know when someone is doing something to and with it...and since it was you...well, it was hardly going to be forgettable, was it?"

There was a chuckle. "I suppose so," he replied, lifting his hands to lift his lover's face and claim the familiar lips in another kiss, both of them leaning back on the edge of the table.

A clatter from behind the Slytherin made them both jump in surprise.

A pile of books had been jolted when they had bumped into the table and slowly slid down, only to fall with a deafening series of bangs as they bounced from tabletop to chair, then onto the floor.

"Crap!" the Slytherin groaned, both of them quickly kneeling to gather up the books, the approaching footsteps suggesting that the librarian was no longer insensible to their presences.

"I suppose that makes it a night?" the Gryffindor raised eyebrows.

The Slytherin nodded with a sigh. "Looks that way, doesn't it?" he murmured.

As Madam Pince came around the edge of the shelves, giving them a cursory look, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I thought you boys would know that the library is a place of quiet," she said.

"He pushed my books over," the Gryffindor said, giving the Slytherin what could be interpreted as a dark look to the casual observer, but brilliant eyes twinkled at the Slytherin, who hastily smothered a grin.

Pince tutted, shaking her head. "If you can't work properly together, I would suggest that you sit in different parts of the library," she said severely. "We can't have you disrupting other students."

"Of course, Madam Pince," the Gryffindor said sincerely, stuffing books and pieces of parchment into a satchel. "I really should be going now."

"Both of you should," Madam Pince said. "It's almost curfew and the library closes in a few moments."

Nodding, the Slytherin gathered up all his own books, parchment and quills, stuffing them into his bag and stomping towards the door without a backwards look.

However, seconds later, when the Gryffindor emerged from the library, the Slytherin boy was still waiting for his partner, grinning as the young Gryffindor emerged, after sincerely thanking the librarian.

"You're too good at wrapping people around your finger," the Slytherin said dryly.

The Gryffindor gave him an innocent look. "Being famous does have the advantage, especially when everyone thinks that you must be well-behaved and a goody-goody boy all the time."

"How wrong can they be?" the other boy smirked.

Harry Potter shrugged expressively, eyes twinkling. "I'm behaving," he replied. "I just didn't say I was going to behave well, though." Stepping closer to his lover, the Gryffindor Seeker rose on his toes and pressed a brief kiss to his partner's lips. "Same time next week, Greg?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Gregory Goyle answered, giving Harry brush of a kiss and suggestion of a grin. "I need to work on a new excuse though."

"Just tell them you're pestering the famous Harry Potter," Harry said, smirking. "I'm sure Malfoy won't object."


	7. Always

Curled on her side in her bed, the pillows beneath her head covered in a spread of red hair, the sixteen-year-old witch's lips curled in a smile as a young man slid closer, arm looping around her.

"Are you sleeping?" a voice whispered as a warm hand spread over her stomach, thick blankets the only thing separating them.

Tilting her head as a kiss brushed over her throat, she murmured, "I think I'm dreaming."

"Dreaming?"

"Mmm," A shiver chased down her spine as he continued to kiss her throat, his chest against her back. "You can't be... you wouldn't..." She moaned as a kiss touched the edge of her jaw. "You must be a dream..."

His hand slid underneath the blankets to stroke down her side, her nightshirt already clinging to her body with the dew of sweat.

"Do I feel like a dream?" he asked, slowly running his hand up her body. He turned her face to his. "Do I look like a dream?"

Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, she nodded, turning onto her back to gaze at him. "Yes," she whispered, closing her eyes. His lips touched hers, the kiss gentle.

Her hands, hesitant, slid up to his black hair, always so unruly. The sureness of his lips on hers served to remind her he was older, more experienced. He would look after her, she knew, and love her and take care of her.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered as he drew back, gazing at her with an intensity that took her breath away. "You'll get in trouble being in these dormitories..."

He lifted her hand to his lips. "No one will ever know," he promised, kissing her knuckles, then turning her hand over, kissing her palm. "It's our secret."

"But what...?"

His lips smothered her words, then he drew back. "Trust me," he said softly. "I promise no one'll find out, unless you want them to. None of our friends need to know."

"But..."

Sitting up, he drew her to him, cradling her against his chest. A hand stroked through her hair. "No one will find out," he repeated reassuringly. "We all have secrets, you know... all of us."

"You aren't...angry with me?"

"Why would I be?" he said. "If I was angry with anyone, it would be with that interfering idiot for trying to keep us apart."

"He was trying to protect me," the girl murmured, hand spread on his chest. "After all... he always hated you. He couldn't understand that you were the one I..." Her eyes rose to his. "I loved."

"Really?"

She nodded shyly. "Since first year," she admitted, blushing prettily. "You were nice to me. No one else bothered about me. You were the one to cheer me up." 

"I couldn't leave you looking so sad, could I?" he said, lifting her face, brushing a fingertip along her lower lip. "Not when you were going to blossom into such a beautiful woman."

Her blush intensified and she hid her face. "You're embarrassing me," she mumbled.

"I aim to please," he chuckled, stroking her hair. "But now...do you want to go for a walk? Just the two of us? Alone?"

"Sounds wonderful," she admitted, as he slid from the bed, extending a hand to her.

She took it immediately and rose, shivering when the stone of the floors touched her soles. Slipping her feet into her slippers, she looked up at him, so tall and beautiful in the moonlight slanting in the window. "Where...?"

"Close your eyes," he said softly, still holding her hand in his. "I'll take you there, if you trust me."

She obediently closed her eyes and felt the fingertips of his other hand fleetingly brush across her cheek, making her tremble.

Their footsteps were muted in the halls and staircases. She trusted him enough to keep her eyes closed, as they wound their way through the labyrinth of the school.

His fingertips traced across her eyelids and she heard him whisper something as his fingers slipped from hers. "Open your eyes," he breathed, stepping behind her, his arms around her waist.

She gasped, as she did so.

They were in one of the classrooms on the lower levels, the view over the lake beautiful, moonlight flooding into the room.

"I thought," he murmured. "We might try another new...interest."

"O-oh?"

His hand turned her face to the middle of the room, where there sat a large... rock?

"What's that for?"

"I've heard that sculpting can be incredibly romantic," he murmured, threading hot kisses along her throat. "I couldn't get clay, so I thought that rock would be the next best thing."

"But I'm not artistic..."

Another kiss touched her jaw, like electricity. "That's what you said about pumpkin carving for Halloween, last week, and look how good you were at that."

She giggled, remembering.

Gouging fleshy pumpkins up, the juice warm and wet on her fingers, she had made an image of him, making him laugh, then he had made love to her, leaving her soaked and sticky with the juice of the pumpkins.

It was always the way of their little walks.

They would share laughter, then would make love, before separating to keep their relationship hidden.

Anything to lighten the dark mood that had sunk onto the castle, in the wake of the horrific Lord Voldemort. 

Every day, bodies were found, inside and outside the castle. It was only her trust of her lover that allowed her to leave her dormitory at night, knowing he would keep her safe.

"Show me what to do," she said, looking up at him.

His arms around her, he lead her to the block of stone, collecting a chisel from the nearby desk. The rock stood about the same height as he did, a deep grey colour.

"Here," he said, placing the chisel and a small hammer in her hands. "What do you want to carve?"

She gave him a coy look. "A statue of the best-looking man in the world," she replied, receiving a kiss for her words. She moaned as he pushed her against the stone, drawing her nightshirt up.

The surface of the rock was rough against her back as he made love to her, sobbing gasps escaping her, her hands wound through his hair as he moved against her body.

"Say it," he hissed. 

"I love you," she cried out, as pleasure crashed in on her.

His own sound of release echoed hers and she clung to him, panting, as he held her upright. "You're mine," he whispered. "Always."

She nodded, her face buried in the hollow of his sweat-dewed throat. "I know."

"So...do you want to try sculpting now?"

She giggled breathlessly. "After that...?"

"Why not?" It took several minutes to catch her breath as he smoothed her nightshirt down, then brushed his knuckles down her cheek. "Let me see what work of art you can come up with, love."

Her hands still sweat-slicked, she took the chisel and hammer from him and placed them carefully against the surface of the stone. "What... how do I do this?"

"Just imagine how it will look and carve it."

The pointed tip of the chisel scraped against the surface and she struck it with the hammer. It bit through the strangely-soft stone. A stream of... something oozed out and she stared at it, confused.

"Is-is rock meant to hold water?"

"It's from the lakeside, so that's probably normal," he murmured, moving close, framing her body with his, the intimate contact making her tremble. "Damp rocks don't work for sculpting, though."

"So I can't do anything?"

A kiss touched her throat. "Apparently not sculpting," he replied. "I'm sure we can come up with something else to do."

As the fluid continued to ooze from the stone, the chisel imbedded in it's surface, the dark-haired youth drew his lover down into the puddle at the base and made love to his red-haired lover.

The way she cried out his name made him giddy with delight.

It was only when dawn neared that he returned her to her chambers with a last kiss.

As she, almost in a daze, washed herself, donned a clean nightshirt and climbed into bed, he stood by, his eyes never leaving her.

"I love you, Tom," she whispered drowsily, as she fell asleep.

Tom Riddle smiled as he withdrew from the girl's mind, wondering what poor, Ginny Weasley would do when she heard that Professor McGonagall had been found dead in a classroom on the lower floor, bound and stabbed through the heart with a chisel.

It was like those poor mudblood pupils, carved up by cruel hands the night before Halloween, their faces like the pumpkins in the Great Hall.

Potter thought that he had defeated Tom, but only Tom and Ginny knew that was not the case.

Ginny had loved Tom too deeply.

And Tom, in kind, loved her back.

As he told her, every night, she was his. 

_Always_.


	8. A Brief Embrace

Standing by the half-open window, hazy morning sunlight just starting to creep through the pane, the black-haired youth gazed out onto the lawn of the house, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a mug of tea.

The house was silent, the ticking of the clock on the wall almost deafening in the peace, the occasional drip from the tap in the kitchen making a curious little 'plop' every sixteen seconds, on the dot.

He liked it this way, knowing that there was no threat lingering on the cosy horizon.

In recent days, the Dark One had been coming closer, killing and maiming as a mode of entertainment on his violent quest which presently seemed almost irrelevant to the youth who was, now, watching a cat stalking around the garden.

Sipping some of the lukewarm tea in his mug, he exhaled a breath which misted the window, briefly obscuring the transparent reflection on the pane. 

He had woken early again. It had become regular. This morning, it was almost as soon as the dawn light filtered through the chink in the curtain, tracing a pale, cool line across his face.

Even if he had wanted to sleep more, the sounds of birds trilling outside seemed so much louder than they did when he woke. It was always the same way - wake up in absolute peace, then the small sounds filter in, still soft, but enough to distract you from sleeping again.

So, creeping out of the room as quietly as he could, he had descended the stairs and wandered into the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea and helping himself to a slice of bread and jam.

It had been nice, kind of comfortable, to just sit for a little while and contemplate the meaning of life and ponder why, even when the raspberry jam is seedless, you can always gets one seed stuck between your teeth.

Now, half an hour on, his mug was still half-full of tea that had grown cold, as he stood and looked out on the world, the misty wash over everything slowly melting away as the daylight slunk in.

Taking another sip of the cooling tea, he heard the creak of a floorboard behind him and smiled slightly as a freckled pair of hands came to rest on his hips, then slid down around his waist.

"I didn't hear you get up," a voice murmured against his neck. "You should have woken me."

"I didn't want to disturb you," he replied quietly, his eyes closing in pleasure as a kiss was pressed against his bare neck. "And it would have looked a bit suspicious if I just walked into your room..." His breath caught in his throat as a nip was placed just below his jawline. "The others might have wondered."

He felt, rather than saw the smile on his lover's face. "I'm sure we could have come up with a believable excuse."

Placing his mug down on the window-ledge, he nodded, turning around in those warm, familiar arms. "I don't doubt it," he said, gazing down into bright eyes that were always alight with life and energy. 

"Do I get a morning kiss?"

"Always," he answered, bending and touching his mouth to hers. Even though he knew she belonged to someone else, it didn't sour the kiss. If anything, it only served to make it sweeter, as his hands stroked through her unruly hair.

They drew apart several moments later, breathless, one of his hands cupping her flushed face, his fingertips toying with the curly strands that were normally tucked behind her ears.

"You're amazing," he said softly, gazing at her from beneath the long, jet strands of his fringe, with an intensity that made her tremble.

"Me? Not really," she moaned into another kiss, her hands splaying on his chest. The buttons of his shirt rapidly came undone beneath her fingers and she touched his lean, smooth torso.

Rising over his ribs, her hands lingered there, fingertips leaving tiny indentations as his chest expanded and deflated with every breath, her eyes remaining on his face as they broke out of the kiss.

Her hands were always so warm and soft against his skin, the skin so pale, but for the freckles dashed here and there on it. One of her most adorable features was the very light smattering of freckles speckling her dainty nose.

So many times, he had just loved to drop a kiss on the end of that little button of a nose, receiving a giggle and a swat for his efforts.

"You know we shouldn't do this here," he finally said, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "What if we get caught?"

She shrugged. "I'm willing to risk it," she answered, rising on her toes and claiming his mouth again. Her hands slid up his bared chest, one wrapping around the back of his neck and holding him to her.

His own hands seemed to have taken on a mind of their own, running down her back and cradling her bottom, massaging the soft swells. Her hips pressed up against him and he smothered a soft groan.

"We shouldn't..." he repeated, more for his own benefit.

Dark eyes gazed it him for a long moment. "We're alone," she finally said, drawing back and taking his hands in hers. "If anyone else gets up, we'll hear them long before they get down the stairs."

She lead him towards the sofa, hidden from the staircase by the living room wall, pushing him down onto the seat. The button and zip of his trousers were undone and his lover straddled his thighs, her nightdress pulled up.

His head rocked back on the back of the sofa as she sank down and their bodies joined, a low groan of pleasure escaping him. "I can't believe I could do this..."

"What?" she asked huskily, moving against him. "This?"

His eyes opened, vivid in their colour, which had deepened with passion. "No... yes... I mean, he's my best mate... if he found out I was doing this with you... you know how much he cares about you... he'll kill me if he finds out..."

"Then," she breathed, sliding her hands through his dark hair. "We'll just have to make sure that he doesn't find out..." Her mouth claimed his with the fire and energy he had always loved in her.

Their affair had come of an accident a few months earlier, when he had been visiting them, his best friend and her. A nasty knock on the head had left him out of it for a few days and she had nursed him, then, he had playfully pecked her on the cheek to thank her.

She had gazed at him for a moment, then she had returned the kiss, only her mouth pressed against his, hot, wet and sweet, opening and letting her tongue dart against his tightly closed lips.

She had fled in embarrassment almost immediately.

However, she had come back later that day to check on him and that time, he had been the one to initiate the kiss, his hand in her beautiful red hair, his mouth on hers, his tongue probing her lips greedily.

And it had progressed from there.

Hesitant kisses became cautious embraces and tentative touches when they were sure no one would notice, then those tentative touches became caresses and gradually, they became something more.

Now, they took whatever chances they could to be together, their private moments growing rarer and rarer, though no less passionate with the passage of time.

Her first partner knew nothing of the affair, for which the black-haired young man was grateful. He didn't want to be the one to ruin the relationship between the couple and yet, he knew that he would never be able to give up his lover.

Especially not their love-making.

There was something oddly exciting about making love in a place where they knew they could get caught. It was almost like electricity in the air, as their mouths duelled and they moved against one another.

Both of them froze at a creaking from the level above them and they heard footfalls on the floor of the bedroom above them.

Claiming a hard, brief kiss, she drew herself away from his body, hastily smoothing down her nightshirt and fastening her dressing gown around herself. "Tidy yourself up a bit," she suggested softly, then hurried through into the kitchen.

Muttering something about blue balls and future problems he was sure he would have, he straightened himself out and fastened the buttons of his shirt up as he made his way through to the kitchen, where his lover was at the cooker, frying bacon.

Sitting down at the table, he gave her a half-smile, both of them looking around as they heard footsteps on the stairs.

Pausing on the landing halfway down, Ron Weasley grinned at them. "Morning, mum," he said cheerfully. "Morning Harry."


	9. Crush

He would have recognised her anywhere.

Yes, it had almost been a decade since he had seen her, but the moment he spotted her tall, slim figure weaving down Diagon Alley, he had felt the familiar flutter in his chest that he had always experienced when he saw her.

Pushing through the crowd, hastily apologising for any toes he was trampling on, as he tried to catch up with her, he kept his eyes on the silvery-blonde hair that hung down to her waist.

Her most distinct feature.

A grin quirked his lips up. 

Most distinct features among other things.

He saw her walking at a leisurely pace further down the street and scrambled after her, determined that now - no longer a stammering schoolboy - he would get some closure on the issue he had had with her.

Issue.

Mad, passionate crush was a closer description.

Almost knocking a witch off his feet, he paused to steady her and turned to look for the woman he was following.

"Damnit!"

The witch beside him made an indignant sound and scuttled off into the crowd, as the red-haired man rapidly scanned the street for any sign of the stunning woman, but she was gone.

"Bugger," he groaned. "Typical."

Searching out the spot that he had last seen her, he continued down the street in that direction, hoping that he would glimpse her, determined to talk to her like a civilised adult and finally squash the last traces of the crush he had.

There was no trace of her.

It was as if she had vanished into thin air and that... well, that bollixed the plan for slide-tackling her, pinning her down and telling her, in no uncertain terms, that "No, I don't fancy you anymore, even if you're gorgeous, a sexy-as-hell Ice-Queen, your arse is stunning, you have the most snoggable mouth ever." 

Slapping a hand futilely against the wall, the red-haired man made his way glumly back towards the Leaky Cauldron, wondering if it would be such a crime to drown his crush in several too many Firewhiskys.

After all, he had finished the jobs he had to do in Diagon Alley, delivering various important dispatches by hand to different Ministry workers, in numerous offices, to ensure they arrived all right.

The Ministry owls were all getting on a bit and were in dire need of either a break or retirement. Recently one had apparently ended up in Tibet when it was just meant to be going 'To Bette', a woman working seven streets away. 

It only took a few minutes to get back to the small pub and he shuffled in, throwing himself dejectedly on the stool in front of the bar.

"Ello, Mr. Weasley!" Tom said. "What can I get for you?"

"Firewhisky, lots of," he replied, folding his arms on the counter and burying his head in them and trying to imagine how wonderful the world would be if something could just go right for him for once.

"Ah... one of those days?"

"Nguh..."

His head was still lying on the counter when Tom returned, the bottle thumping down on the counter along with a glass, the coolness radiating from the chilled bottle against the side of his hand.

Unwilling to move even to get drunk, he settled for wrapping his hand around the bottle and just lay there.

That is, until a voice spoke in his ear. 

"May I pour you a drink?"

The red-haired man had never moved faster in his life, jerking upright and staring in astonishment at the woman standing beside him, smiling slightly at the stunned look on his face.

"You!"

"Yes?" she inquired with amusement, her expression suggesting she was having problems hiding a smile. "I saw you following me, outside."

"Um..."

He almost shot out of his seat, as if he has touched an electric cable, when one of her hands came to rest on his thigh, warm through the material of his trousers and dangerously close to the top of his thigh.

"I did not mind," she purred, gazing at him from beneath half-closed lids. "You have grown a lot since we last met."

That was true. It had been a decade earlier, when he had been a teenager, in the year of the Tri-Wizard tournament, the thing he remembered that year for along with the Quidditch World Cup.

There was a great difference between a fourteen-year-old and a twenty-four year old.

"Ah... well... er..."

"Shall we drink?" she asked. Her hand palpated his thigh and whatever answer he was about to form went sailing out the window as he blinked mutely at her.

Even though ten years had passed, she was still as stunning as she had been the first time he saw her. Her eyes were a little more mature, her figure fuller in the right places but everything else… perfect as he remembered it.

And no wedding ring.

A definite plus.

"Drink?" he squeaked. Squeaked? Oh Merlin! How manly!

Mind you, he was utterly justified in the way that his mind was currently turning into a dribble of useless mush.

After all, one of the women that almost every boy in his Gryffindor year had admitted lusting over at some point was standing beside him, her hand on his inner thigh, her hair brushing his shoulder.

"You know what a drink is, don't you?" Her hand moved up a little and his eyes went very round, the seam of his trousers brushing against the edge of her fingers. A smirk lifted her lips. "Unless you would prefer to do something else..."

He squeaked again.

Dear Merlin, this was humiliating.

"Shall I take that as a yes?" she asked, leaning a little closer to him.

"Ah... er... well..."

"Walk with me," she suggested, lifting her head and hand and moving gracefully away from him, her nose in the air. It was that imperious pose that prevented half the men in the bar from approaching her.

Scrambling to his feet, his trousers suddenly rather tight in a certain region, he shambled after her wondering if it were possible for him to look any more like a whipped puppy, trailing after it's mistress.

Lead through the side door and into the private corridors of the Leaky Cauldron's residencies, he found himself pinned up against the wall, the woman's face less than an inch from his own.

"Why me?" she asked huskily, staring up at him.

"Y-y-y-you're gorgeous..."

Her lips curved in a smile. "Is that all?"

"Um..."

One of her manicured hands spread on his chest. "Is it because I'm older than you?" she asked, her eyes still holding his. "More experienced? Could it be because I am mysterious? Illusive?"

"Um... all of the above?"

Her eyes glittered with amusement. "A good answer," she murmured, trailing her fingertip under his chin. "And why, Mister Weasley, would I have a reason to be interested in you?"

"Well... er..." Fishing around for a witticism, he shrugged. "You know what they say about tall men..."

"Enlighten me."

"Er... actually, I don't know, but it sounded like a good thing to say."

She laughed, a gentle, tinkling sound. "You make me laugh," she murmured, holding his chin lightly in her hand. "It has been many years since I have had someone who could make me laugh."

"Um..."

"So very amusing," she cooed, rising on her toes and brushing a kiss across his lips. "Many do not...appreciate if a man can make you laugh." Another kiss touched his chin. "I admire it... desire it..."

The red-haired man made another strangely pathetic squeaking noise in his throat, his brown eyes wide open, as her mouth covered his, her lips soft, sweet and pliant.

Hesitantly, his hands rose to her hips and he drew her closer, as she deepened the kiss, leading him where his wildest fantasies had only ever taken him before, her hands combing through his hair.

The kiss broke, leaving him panting and flushed.

"You have a devilish tongue," she whispered, licking his lower lip.

"Look whose talking," he retorted, grinning down at her.

"What is it?"

"I was just imagining," he said, chuckling. "The look on your son's face if he finds out the son of one of his dead dad's worst enemies, has been snogging his mother. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to piss him off."

"Why," she asked with a seductive smile, as she pushed the young man back against the wall. "Do you think I deliberately chose you? My son is too like his father. He needs a little... shock, to remind him that he is merely mortal."

"So I'm a shock tactic?"

Narcissa Malfoy shrugged. "You could call it that," she replied, tracing the curve of his lip with her fingertip. "Or you could say sex-toy..." 

Ron Weasley briefly contemplated the thought of both getting laid with a stunning blond and scaring the crap out of Draco Malfoy.

Beaming, he replied, "Sounds good!"


	10. Perfect Combination

Sitting in the Prefect's common room, settled on one of the large, comfortable couches beside the fireplace, Hermione was poring over a hefty book, making notes on a sheet of parchment that lay beside her.

A warm, welcoming fire was crackling in the fireplace, illuminating her work, the chill of impending winter already creeping in, despite the fact that it was barely even halfway through November.

Outside, the rain was lashing savagely against the glass with the force of hard pellets of water, making the studious fifth year even more grateful that she wasn't in any of the Quidditch teams, who seemed to end up outdoors in all weathers.

Her feet tucked up under her body, her uniform had been replaced with a pair of blue tracksuit bottoms and a baggy T-shirt that her lover had insisted she wear for comfort because her skirts and jumpers looked so awkward to just laze around in. 

She looked more casual and comfortable than anyone had ever seen her, her hair pulled back in a scruffy ponytail as she chewed on her lower lip, looking from prior notes to the more recent ones, scoring through several and replacing them.

Behind her, she heard the painting that served as a door squeaking open, footfalls suggesting that a single person had entered, but she didn't bother looking around, dipping her quill into the ink bottle on the small table beside her.

Her quill scratched quietly on the page, her dark brown eyes already scanning in the text for further notes, the fingers of her left hand tracing along the words in the book, while her right scrawled notes.

A squeal of indignant surprise escaped her, her quill jerking and jabbing a hole through her parchment, when a pair of ice-cold hands were stuck down the back of her T-shirt, against her warm back.

"Hey!"

She heard the chuckle from above her and looked up to find dancing eyes looking down at her, soaking black hair slicked around a face that was flushed with exertion and amusement. "What?"

Hermione scowled, although it was belied by a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. "You have cold hands," she replied, trying to duck away, but that only served to shift the mischievous hands, which spread on her shoulders. The cool fingertips palpated her skin and she shivered. "What are you doing in here anyway?"

"Does that mean you're not pleased to see me?"

Leaning back against the back of the couch, one of Hermione's hands rose and covered her lover's through the fabric of the T-shirt. "Not at all!" she replied. "But I thought you had Quidditch practise."

"I did," The fingertips that were roughened by years of gripping a broomstick started moving in lazy circles on her skin. "But have you looked out of the window in the last half an hour?"

Both of them looked towards the window, where the drops were pelting against the glass. It sounded like handfuls of gravel rattling against the panes.

"Pah!" Hermione sniffed. "It's just a little rain."

"Excuse me while I point out that when you're flying at high speeds, that little bit of rain hits you a lot harder and it's very difficult to fly when your robes are so water-logged you can barely get a foot off the ground."

"Now that sounds like a Quidditch game that would actually be interesting to watch," Hermione smiled, a little naughtily, aware of how seriously her lover took the game. "Imagine trying to score in the goals."

A kiss was dropped on the top of her head. "Sometimes, I don't know why I put up with you, you silly thing," her lover replied patiently. "After all, everyone knows that Quidditch is the best game in the world." 

"Hmpf."

"Don't you 'hmpf' me, young lady!" It was said with mock-indignation. "You can't even claim to like mentally-stimulating games because you're as bad at chess as I am at counted cross-stitch!"

"Actually," Hermione grinned wryly. "You're probably better at counted cross-stitch and I've given up on trying to understand the rules of chess because there's not a chance that I'll ever manage to beat Ron."

There was a moment of silence.

"Do you think we should tell him? Well... not just him... everyone."

"I-I don't know," Hermione admitted uneasily. "I don't know if he's can actually deal with me going out with somebody. You saw what it was like when I went out with Viktor, last year."

"I s'pose so..."

"Do we really have to think about that right now, though?" Laying aside her books and papers, Hermione motioned for the Seeker to join her on the couch. "You deserve a break, after all that flying."

"Or sinking," her lover quipped, smirking, then shook the long robes, which were still dripping. Fending off spray of drops with her hands, Hermione yelled out in indignation. "I feel like a drowned rat!"

"Look a bit like one as well," Hermione offered.

"Hey! I resent that!"

Hermione grinned. "Well," she said, a wicked glimmer in her eyes. "It's just a good thing that I have a bit of a thing for drowned rats, isn't it?"

A warmed hand lifted her chin and she met bright eyes. "I knew there was a reason I loved you," A kiss was brushed lightly across her lips. "I can look like I was just dragged through a hedge backwards and you still like me."

Hermione went a pretty shade of pink. "And you like me when my hair **_is_** that hedge which you were dragged through backwards!" she said, winding a hand through the unruly black hair of her lover and claiming another kiss. "Although," she added, pulling back. "I prefer you less... dripping."

She was given a deliciously wicked smirk. "Oh really?"

"I didn't mean like **_that_**!" Hermione squeaked, going scarlet.

Her lover burst out laughing. "I'm sure you didn't, but as a special favour, I'll try not to get you... wet tonight." The witch sniffed indignantly. "What?"

"I can't believe I'm involved with someone with such a filthy mind."

Sodden outer-Quidditch robes were stripped off and deposited onto the fire-guard along with the jumper, to dry, leaving the skinny Quidditch-player wearing a slightly damp white T-shirt and pale trousers. 

"If you understood what I meant, does that make your mind any less filthy?" her lover countered, smirking.

Hermione pulled a face. "I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Twist my words and make me look silly."

Another kiss was pressed lightly to Hermione's lips. "You love it, really," She raised an eyebrow. "How many people can successfully make you look daft? Not many and I'm one of the special few."

"Well, yes..."

"And that's what you love about me."

"Mostly, yes..."

An eyebrow rose. "Mostly? What else do you love about me?"

"You'll have to find that one out."

"And how might I do that?"

Hermione grinned. "I'll let you work that one out."

Sitting down, nimble fingers rapidly removed arm and leg guards, dropping them in a heap on the floor beside the couch. Shoes were pulled off and dripping socks were peeled away from chilly feet, then tossed onto the edge of the grate, where the heat immediately made wisps of steam curl up from them.

Shifting to lean back against the arm of the couch, Hermione smiled as her lover slid between her thighs, a narrow, thin back comfortably coming to rest against her chest, her arms sliding around the Seeker's neck.

Her legs stretched out and she squealed in surprise at just how cold her lover's icy feet were against her own, feeling their chill in spite of her own thick socks, her own laughter mingling with that of her significant other. 

"You do know this looks ridiculous?"

"It could be worse," Hermione murmured, tracing her hands down the front of the rain-dotted white T-shirt, nuzzling the rosy cheek and black hair of the slim Seeker in front of her.

"Mmm?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"How?"

Raising one hand, Hermione turned her lover's face to hers and claiming a greedy, probing kiss. Her other hand drew up the white T-shirt, moving over the bare belly beneath it.

A rough hand pulled her hair loose from it's constraints, winding into the bushy mass, possessing Hermione entirely, while the witch's hand caressed the Seeker's chest, tracing circles on the sternum.

Pulling back, they stared at one another intensely.

"You are so beautiful when you've been properly snogged."

Hermione's cheeks glowed with a combination of pleasure and embarrassment, her eyes down for a moment. "I-I think you look beautiful all the time," she said, raising her eyes to dark ones.

A brilliant smile lit up her lover's face. "Heaven help the school when we go out together and you've been snogged. We could take out half the population in the school on our sheer good looks."

"Not to mention the other half with our brains."

Cho beamed at Hermione. "Brains and beauty? We're the perfect combination!"


	11. The Veela's Kiss

The full moon was rising over the prickly, shadowed head of the Forbidden Forest, gleaming and round like a shining, unmarred silver penny against the inky darkness of the night's sky. 

Sparks of starlight glittered here and there, between wisps of lunar-dashed cirrus, the chill of the air enough to mist the breath of the girl who stood on the middle of the blue-washed grass.

Her robes trailed along the blades, dampness staining the hem as she paced, leaving a darkened trail where her feet had stepped.

He would come to her, she knew. He would.

Frostiness nipped at her gloveless hands and she rubbed them together, shivering slightly. 

He would come.

Earlier that day, when Madam Maxime had not been watching her like a hawk, she had slipped away, following him. He was alone, again, had been since she had first noticed him, the night that the Goblet had selected the champions.

Catching him in one of the darker hallways, she had pulled him to one side and let her charm wash over him, leaving him a little... weakened. It was a side-effect and she had been pleased to notice beads of sweat forming on his brow.

One of her hands had overlaid his and he had trembled at the contact. Also pleasing, she remembered with a light, confident smile. 

She had whispered that she would like to speak with him.

He had said nothing.

Leaning in, she had brushed her lips along the curve of his ear and breathed that she would be on the main lawn at midnight. He had shivered again, staring at her with confusion.

"Give me a reason," he had said. 

"I will give it to you tonight," she had replied.

His eyes had narrowed suspiciously, but he had nodded.

So innocent in the ways of Veela.

Or of a woman.

She had been unable to decide but had caressed his cheek, then pulled back, gliding away through the darkness like a silver-clad ghost. His eyes remained on her until she was out of sight.

Yes, he would come.

She had heard of him, of course, but not because she was interested in what he had done.

Originally, it was because one of her cousins attended his school and had filled scroll after scroll about the unusual, dark-haired individual, who was notorious in many circles. The descriptions intrigued Fleur Delacour. 

Always, it was the unusual ones that caught her attention, the ones who would be more cautious with their emotions, the ones who would provide a challenge for her.

Her lips curved in a slow smile.

He would certainly prove a challenge, sullen and grim, but she was certain she would succeed.

The smile broadened into that of a cat with the cream, confident, her slender hands rising to push through her moon-sheened silver hair that hung to her waist. 

Not even the most surly individual had ever been able to resist the charms of a quarter-Veela. She had her grandmother's abilities to bring any male to his knees, should she wish it.

The rustle of robes over the grass behind her drew her attention, the whisper of the material barely audible.

Turning, her lips curved in a predatory smile, as she found her target moving towards her, clothed in night-robes that made him appear like a shadow blotted against the clear light of the night.

The minute her eyes found him, his pace faltered, but he continued to approach, his expression a dark glare, a warning that she would not succeed in her aim.

She had seen such an expression before.

It was unimportant.

"You came," she purred, stepping towards him, her hands rising to rest on his chest, a chest that was thin beneath the robes, not as bulky as she expected, but hands - strong hands with callused pads, she observed - caught her wrists.

"You have not answered me," he said in a soft, dangerous voice. 

Her eyes hooded, Fleur studied him from beneath her lashes. "I wished to talk to you," she murmured, twisting her hands in his grip, her fingertips skimming across the edge of his wrists. "To touch you."

He dropped her wrists as if burned, stepping back from her, the look of confusion on his face adorable in it's intensity. It was not what he had expected of her.

"Touch... me?"

"Mmm," Fleur replied silkily, taking a slow step towards him. "I have heard much about you. I would like to 'ave a chance to..." She licked her lips. "Know you better zan I already do."

"You are joking..."

She was in front of him before he could flee, her hands sliding to his shoulders. So thin, so narrow, yet so strong. She had felt it in his hands, too.

"I would never joke about zis," she purred, her face close to his.

She had heard a phrase once, of a rabbit in the light of an oncoming muggle vessel of transport and it was the expression she saw in the face of the dark-haired wizard before her.

"I can not..."

He tried to pull away, but Fleur was having none, her grip like a vice on his arms, her eyes boring into his as she released her abilities upon him, her head rolling back with a moan.

It was a warming sense of pleasure that rushed through her body, as always when she used her abilities in a focused manner on one person, a stubborn, determined, petulant, arrogant creature like the one before her.

He felt it too, she knew, a tremor running through him. She heard him gasp, a soft hitch of breath in his throat, between parted lips that were damp, shining in the moonlight.

Sinking against him, the drain leaving her weak with self-satisfaction, she felt his hands at her waist.

Her eyes rose to his face.

A dew of sweat washed his tense features, his lips parted as faint breaths danced between them. His eyes were closed, in an effort to resist, a line visible between beetled brows.

Ah, oui, cheri...

He would try to resist, of course, as many did. He would not wish to have someone slipping beneath the impenetrable cloak of solitude in which he garbed himself against hurt and emotion.

Raising a hand, Fleur traced a fingertip down the hollow of his cheek, felt him tremble. So responsive to her touches, she mused, sweeping a fingertip along his lower lip.

"Stop this," he hissed, pushing her away.

Shaking her hair back, Fleur straightened her back, raising her chin. "Is zat what you want for me to do?" she asked huskily, her fingertips wandering the curve of her breasts.

"Yes..."

She studied him for a moment. "You lie," she murmured, stepping closer to him, raising her hand to follow the curve of his lip with her forefinger. "You do not want me to stop."

His jaw tightened, a new shadow appearing in his cheek.

"Would you have me leave?" she whispered, her eyes locking with his. "Or would you have me touch you?"

"Leave," he mumbled.

"You lie once more, mon cher," she tutted, then replaced the finger on his lips with her own, her eyes hooded slits. Again, he shuddered at the contact, but she knew it was a sensation of pleasure.

Her tongue brushed along his lips that were quickly pressed together in a tight line, a stubborn look crossing his features. Still, the flick of her tongue caught a dash of his flavour, masculine and strong.

Drawing back, she caressed his cheek. "Perhaps you are right, mon cher," she said softly, pouting at him. "Perhaps you truly do wish for me to stop, no?"

"Yes," he replied through gritted teeth. 

Fleur smiled again, her eyes twinkling. "Ah, yes, but I am not from your school, am I?" she reminded him cheerfully. "Zere is nuzzink wrong wiz indulging in an inter-school relationship, no?"

"I disagree," He tilted his head proudly.

"If zat is so, zen you will not be here tomorrow night, at the same time?"

His dark eyes widened and he took a back step. "You..."

"I will be here, mon cher," she murmured. "It is up to you if you join me."

His eyes darkened. "It is not appropriate."

"Why not?"

"I am older than you and I..."

Before he could move back, the French girl had pressed against him. Her sweet mouth locked to his, in a fiery kiss more deadly than the Dementor's, sucking his emotions to the surface, a place they had not been seen in many years.

And yet, he could not fight her.

Finally, it was she who broke the kiss, stepping back. "I will see you here, tomorrow night, mon cher," she whispered, then turned and flitted away from him as suddenly as she had in the hall that morning.

Severus Snape stared after her.

He knew he was probably being a suicidal fool, but she had been right.

After all, no one could resist the Veela's kiss.


	12. Time

Winter had covered the landscape in a wash of white overnight, knee-deep snow lying heavily on the ground, reflecting the sunlight, shining from a brilliant blue sky.

The school stood on the lip of the cliff, glimmering with frost. It looked like it had just been plucked straight out of a fairytale, the ethereal glow making the whole castle look even more magical than usual.

It was quiet, many pupils having returned home to spend Christmas with loved ones, leaving the school more or less deserted, although a few still remained.

On the white-covered lawns, a few students pelted one another with snowballs, laughing, noses red with cold, eyes dancing, robes soaked with melting frost. 

Within the castle, though, two individuals were taking the chance to savour some time alone in one of the tower rooms, an office, where a blazing fire was crackling in the grate.

In spite of the dazzling afternoon sunlight that was peeping curiously in at the thick-paned windows, the thick curtains were drawn to keep out chills and prying eyes.

The only door that lead into the room was locked, manually and magically, to insure they would not be interrupted, their relationship to intimate and special to be revealed.

A few candles flickered around the room, an elaborate stand beside the fireplace dripping dark wax onto the floor, unnoticed by the couple, who were basking in the afterglow of love-making.

On the thick rug in front of the fire, they lay intertwined, covered by nothing more than a light sheen of sweat, savouring the rare moments of intimacy they could have when both of them slipped free of friends.

"Mmm."

"I have to agree with that," the dark youth rolled onto his back and gazed up at the arched ceiling high above them, his fingers interweaving with his lover's.

Their breathing levelled out, the light sweat on their bodies evaporating in the warmth, the room's temperature ideal, not too hot or cool. 

Leaning up on one arm, the black-haired youth smiled at his lover. "Do you think I should have let them know how long I would be gone?" he asked, stroking unruly auburn locks from his lover's face.

There was a chuckle. "Did you honestly know how long you would be?"

"I suppose not..."

His lover sighed. "I think this is the best way to spend a winter afternoon."

"Oh really?" the darker of the pair inquired lazily, lying on one side, a hand stroking down to the flat stomach of his partner.

"Of course. Not only do I get to have you to myself, but you bring chocolate as well." The last was said gleefully, because there was no doubt what that chocolate was for. "You know my weakness for it."

"Well, I did try and get some mandrake potion... something about virility, I think I was told..." he replied, smiling slightly. "But I thought chocolate would work just as well."

"And it was cheaper."

"Actually," the youth laughed. "It would have been much cheaper to steal the mandrake potion, but I know how much you love your chocolate, so I thought I would be generous."

"And you were terrified of being caught stealing from the potions labs," his lover added cheerfully, gazing up at the ceiling above them. "Not that you would ever think about doing that."

The dark boy grinned. "Me? Do something wicked like that? What would people say about me if I did such a thing?"

"You would probably be thrown out into the wide world for being so fiendish, to wander, shamed and nameless, and..." A kiss interrupted the teasing spiel. "You know you can't be a good boy."

"What makes you say that?"

He was drawn down into another kiss. "Good boys don't kiss like that."

A dark eyebrow rose. "And you would know all about that?"

"I'm old enough to have had an experience or two," A hand rose and combed through black hair, already mussed and standing in all directions. "Although I don't think any could compare to you."

"You're just trying to get back on my good side, after calling me a bad boy."

Bright eyes crinkled with amusement. "Is it working?"

"Nope. Still don't like you."

His lover gave him a look. "Would you like me to pout?"

"Now that's unfair," he argued, laughing.

"I made you laugh," A finger pointed at him. "I would say that's a good sign that you like me."

The youth frowned, then started to smile. "I suppose so," he replied with a grin, claiming a kiss, his hand weaving through the thick auburn hair that shone red in the firelight.

As their lips parted, they studied each other for a long moment.

"You know, by this light, it almost looks like your head's on fire," the black-haired boy remarked, lifting strands of thick hair up and holding them to the flickering light of the flames. "See?"

His lover gave him a strange look, then slowly started to chuckle. "You really do pick the strangest things to say."

"I thought that would be classed as being poetic."

"Poetic?"

"Well, kind of... it's the imagery that counts, isn't it?"

"And what are you saying I'm comparable to? A phoenix that erupts into flames at random moments, starting with my head? Or just a random fire?"

"The phoenix thing is kind of nice... although I hope you don't turn to ashes because that would ruin the mood."

"You always must think with your hormones, mustn't you?"

"Naturally, although I would miss having someone to share chocolate with."

"All this from my hair colour..."

Brushing the lock of hair down his cheek, the black-haired boy laughed. "I didn't say it was a bad thing," he remarked, a small smile on his lips. Leaning down, he dropped a kiss on the waiting lips. "Actually, I like it. I always did appreciate red hair."

"Why do I get the feeling that you aren't being entirely honest?"

The youth gave his lover a thoroughly virtuous look. "Have I ever done anything to make you think that?" he asked, batting his eyes in a display of mock-innocence. "I'm always honest, all the time. I never lie. Never. Although, that was technically a lie..."

His lover sat up, chuckling indulgently. "You are terrible," A pair of hands framed his face, drawing him up into a sitting position, warm, familiar lips meeting his in a light kiss. 

"But great?" he offered with a boyish grin, eyes glinting. "I mean that in an utterly modest way, of course."

"If you were anything but great, would I find you as irresistible?"

"Good point."

Another kiss was shared.

"I don't know what we're going to do, once I leave school..."

His lover sighed. "Do you have to bring that up every time we meet?"

"I..." He shook his head. "It's just that I wonder. I'm so used to having you near me and when I leave... I won't." 

"I'm sure you will learn to cope."

"What if I don't want to?"

His lover exhaled a long, slow breath. "You will simply have to learn," The response was quiet and reluctant. "I didn't want to admit it, but after you leave this school, I doubt we will be able to see each other again."

"But you said..."

A pacifying hand was raised. "I know what I said, but there have been whispers... I have to remain here..."

Pulling away from his lover's touch, the dark-haired youth's face was etched with betrayal. "But I thought you cared about me..." he whispered, shaking his head. "You told me you cared..."

"And so I do, but..."

"But you don't want to have me near you anymore?"

"It would be better for both of us to part ways," his lover said quietly. "I am sorry..."

A hand stretched out, but the boy recoiled.

"Don't touch me," he spat.

"You have to understand..."

"Oh, I understand," the sixteen-year-old growled, scrambling to his feet and snatching his robes from the floor. "You tell me you care... just like everyone else... everyone always cares so much, you know... you use me, just like them... you get what you want from me... and find a valid excuse to toss me aside..."

His lover rose to his feet, making a calming gesture with his hand. "There have been rumours... rumours about the rise of a new Dark Wizard, Tom. If I can protect the pupils, then..."

"You'll hurt me to do it," Tom Riddle's eyes filled with tears. "I thought you cared... I really thought you cared..."

"Tom, a Dark Wizard..."

Tom laughed, a wild ringing sound. "You want a Dark Wizard," he half-sobbed. "I'll show you a damned Dark Wizard!"

"Don't be silly, Tom..."

The boy stared wildly at his former partner, tears streaming down his face. "Silly?" he whispered bitterly. "You think I'm being silly? Give me time..." Stalking towards the door, he glared darkly at his lover. "I'll show you just how _silly _I can be, Albus."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N - Check the books people - dear old Dumbledore did have auburn hair when Tom knew him. And, by knowing that, I have proved again that I have no life :) 


	13. Meet Me

Edging out of the doors of the castle, gripping the front of her robes tightly closed in front of her chest, she glanced around warily, hoping that she would be able to make it to the meeting spot, unseen.

After all, it was nearly midnight and not the best time to be sneaking around the school, let alone running out onto the grounds, and it had taken all her resourcefulness to avoid detection by the caretaker, Filch.

She didn't want to be caught, didn't want her liaison with her fantasy lover to become public knowledge, lest it didn't quite go as planned.

Pulling her hood of her dark, winter robes up to conceal her head, to hide her distinctive shock of hair, she slipped from the shadows of the high-arched doorway and into the stretching silver pools of moonlight on the steps and lawn.

The soft whistle of the wind through the dark, twisted trees of the Forbidden Forest made the hairs on her arms rise nervously, the sound eerie and unnatural. 

High above her, the moon was barely a glowing crescent, streaks of purple-silver cloud trailing across the sky, occasionally obscuring the bright lunar grin and the smattering of stars. 

It had been raining earlier and she was grateful that it had stopped. The grounds looked like they had been freshly washed, the clean, damp scent of earth and nature mixing with the powerful magical scent of Hogwarts.

Gripping the front of her robes even more tightly, the clasp at her throat biting into her flesh, she ran rapidly down the staircase and onto the grass which was still wet and cool beneath her feet.

She had to be mad, she knew.

Even if he came to the spot she had designated in the letter she had pushed into his bag in passing, she would have to get past his attitude problem to convince him that she was worth having even a casual fling with.

Although, if his attitude changed, it would ruin the fun of having a fling with him.

She had secretly watched him from a distance for what seemed like forever, his looks and the way he held himself catching her eye at first, the way he spoke to people, his superior tone about everything becoming more of a turn-on than a turn-off.

Reaching the Quidditch stands, she ducked into the shadows, pressing against the canvas-covered sides, catching her breath from the long run across the lawn, her breath escaping in little clouds of misty condensation.

Hopefully, he would come, especially since she had chosen this place of everywhere in the school as their meeting point.

Perhaps he would assume that she wanted Quidditch training from him, since he was so good at it - as he would proudly tell anyone who would listen. If it meant he came to her, she would take that training as well.

The thought of him on a broom...

A grin broke onto her lips and she glanced up towards the school, watching for the tell-tale silhouette of another figure slipping out of the school and running across the silvered lawn to the stadium.

"You really are desperate," she muttered to herself with a weak grin as her eyes fixed on a furtive individual appearing out of one of the side doors of the castle and starting down the vast expanse of the lawn. 

Her eyes hawk-like on her distant prey, she edged towards the curve of the shadows, watching him hurry downwards.

His head was uncovered, so there was no mistaking that it was him, the moonlight shining on his blond hair. He also seemed to be being as cautious as she had, eyes darting around as he broke into a run, determined to make sure that he wasn't seen.

Edging around one of the boxes as he neared, she stepped out of the shadows and in what she hoped sounded like a sexy voice - she didn't have much experience - said, "I hoped you would come."

He stopped short, startled, then appeared to relax. "Oh, it's you," he said, his tone one of irritation, his arms crossing over his chest. "I thought it was someone else."

She knew she was hardly likely to be the only person in the whole school hitting on the bloke. 

He might have had a serious attitude problem, but he was still absolutely gorgeous and most of her friends hadn't disagreed with her when she had commented on it. It was her hopes for landing him as her boyfriend that caused the problem.

She had tried flirting with him before. The term of phrase that one of her friends had muttered to her was a different arrangement of the words: lead balloon went like a down.

"But you're here now, though," she said, pushing her hood back from her face in what was hopefully a glamorous, seductive gesture. He scowled at her, but she ignored his expression. "And I thought that we might as well spend a little time... getting to know one another."

"Flattered as I am," he retorted. "I'm going to have to say no. I said no to you before, repeatedly, and I'll say it again. You aren't my type."

"But you don't mind all of the other girls who like you," she took a step towards him, grasping the front of his robes with small hands. "Why don't you want to have me around?"

Pale eyes studied her. "You're right," he said slowly. "But those other girls didn't try to accost me in the Great Hall, when no one was looking. Also, I'm not interested in getting involved with one person..."

"Because of your jealous pack of girls?"

"Er... sort of. Now, if you don't mind..."

She grinned at him. "Don't tell me you don't like it when a girl takes control."

"Actually, I don't," he said irritably, pushing her hands off his robes. "Now, if you don't mind, you're being very strange and a little frightening and I would rather get back to my..."

Slammed up against the side of the box again, he stared at her, a slightly panicked look in his eyes as she pressed against him. "Are you sure I can't change your mind?"

"Yes! I'm positive..."

"What's wrong with me?" she demanded hotly, hands on his chest. 

"Um..." He looked her over. "You wear clothes that no normal person would be seen dead in, your hair is one of my worst nightmares come true, you're bossy, you're being too forceful, you've been stalking me for weeks..."

"It's... nice that you feel that you can be so honest with me," she said dryly. "But I wouldn't class what I did as stalking... following you any time I have free time and wolf-whistling at, maybe, but that's not stalking..."

"Look," He squirmed free from her grip again. "I've met lots of people like you before and I have to say that I am absolutely and one-hundred percent not interested, even in a brief fling..."

"You're very strange..."

"And you are legally sane, I'm sure. Now, get your filthy little hands off me and let me go!"

Reluctantly, she released him. "How about one kiss?" she cajoled, gazing up at him intently. "That's all...?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Just one?"

"I don't want to kiss you!" he exclaimed, swatting away her hands when she tried to grab at him again. "Get off! Leave me alone!"

"But it'll get me off your back!"

"I am not interested in kissing you, or any other woman in this blasted school!"

She stared at him and her mouth rounded in shock. "You're gay!"

Pale eyes widened in panic. "Um... no, I'm not!" he exclaimed.

"Dear Merlin! You are! That's why you never get involved with anyone! It's not because you know you'd be lynched by those homicidal girls that all seem to think they have a chance with you! It's because you're gay!"

"Stop saying it!"

"Admit it!"

"No!"

"You are! Look at your robes! Your hair! Everything about you!" She waved a finger imperiously in his direction. "I should have guessed before - you're far too good-looking to be straight!"

"Well that's a comfort," he said sourly. 

"So it's true then?"

Turning to face her fully, he scowled at her. "Yes, all right, I'm gay. Happy now?"

"So you're not not interested in me because you think I'm crazy!"

"Actually, I do think you are crazy, but that's invalid..." One hand was on his hip, the shadows in his face deepening as he shifted his feet. "Now, if you don't mind..."

"I'll make a deal with you," she said sharply, grasping at straws. 

"A deal?"

"One kiss and I won't go to the press."

He studied her. "That simple?"

"Of course."

"I have an easier suggestion," he replied, his voice sinking to a low, husky murmur that made her tingle with delight. "If you would hear it, my dear Madam Hooch..."

She nodded, wide-eyed.

Gilderoy Lockhart raised his wand. "_Obliviate_!"

__________________________________________

AN - I know, I know, I've done that ending before, but come on - it was fun and I honestly couldn't resist using Lockhart again! I love my strange and obscure couples and this one certainly is that. 


	14. Need

In a large, beautiful house in the middle of the rolling countryside, concealed by the moon-sheened marble walls, there is a hidden room, a dark, grim little box, in which a single person is confined.

Deep in the dank underbelly, the walls are slick with black slime, which shimmers when light invasively thrusts into the room through the narrow window in the solid barrier of the door.

It is normally dark.

Seldom does light break in through the tight opening.

The occupant of the cell has grown familiar with the gloom, the chill of slick stone grating against his torn, damaged skin, although it is beyond his worst imaginings of what his fate would have been.

Since his childhood, the dark has touched him, fluttering caresses, but he has always found protection in others, surrounded by wizards who would make certain that no harm would come to him.

Until the war.

Was it hours ago or months?

He can no longer tell, time blurring. He can barely even remember who he was before the walls closed on him. Everyone in the world knows his name, but he can no longer recall it.

The war...

Curled in a corner, he almost laughs at the thought, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms shaking from cold and pain. It was meant to be their symbolic last battle, the battle to end all. The outcome had been predicted. It had been inevitable. 

He had faced his nemesis, one-on-one.

It should have been over quickly, a killing curse, then nothing. It was what everyone expected. Some spell to wipe out everything and bring triumph to one of them.

If only it had been that simple.

Everyone had underestimated his enemy, especially his ability to strip away strengths your opponent might have and leave them defenceless. He had walked into a trap.

Burying his face in his scarred hands, he knows it is enough that he failed, but now, now, he is less than nothing, held prisoner by his enemy, tormented day by day.

Stripped of any powers he had, reduced to a mere shell of a person, forced to become a helpless and feeble child once again, powerless, everything he knew physically torn from him, all the things he had learned stolen, his memories distorted.

Shivering, he adjusts the remnants of his tattered robes around him, to shield himself from the chill in the cell, the dampness soaking them making the cold all the worse.

Beyond the immense door upon which he has desperately pounded in terrifying night, childish fears resurfacing as the darkness devours him, he hears the voices of his captors, whom he daily begs to kill him. 

They never listen, laughing at his pleas.

Resting his forehead against his knees, bone-thin arms curl over his head, his fingers brushing against the thinning wisps of black hair, his once-thick mass reduced to a few pitiful strands, plucked by his own feverish fingers in his mindless deliriums.

"Don't come today..." he whispers brokenly, the wounds inflicted on his trembling body from the last visit still unhealed. "Please... not now..."

Voices near, laughing, so genial. 

Nothing so cruel should ever be able to laugh like that. Cold high laughter was fitting in such circumstances. He could tolerate that, but not such genuine amusement and delight.

He remembers he used to know who they were, those who allied themselves with his enemy, but now: a blend of maskless faces he can't differentiate.

The only thing he can know for certain is they all smile at him, mocking, deriding, showing their emotions towards him for the pitiful, worthless thing he has become.

He is sure they don't know why he is kept alive.

They probably delude themselves with the knowledge that he is a trophy, some kind of symbol of the triumph of their master, but if they knew why their leader kept him, held him...

They probably believe that their leader simply mocks him, hurts him. It is so much more humiliating and soul-breaking than that. He is a toy, nothing more. An object to be used to sate his enemy's twisted pleasures. 

They have been at odds for so long, the bitter twist that their relationship has taken was almost an inevitable one.

It is not enough that he was defeated. They want to see him broken, left as nothing, and their leader knows how, from experiencing it at the hands of muggles. The pain coursing through his body is a testament to it. 

It is his enemy's revenge for so many years of suffering.

At first, he could understand why he was being treated thus, as he had suffered too, but days turned into weeks, the weeks to months and the pain didn't stop. He remembered what it was to fear.

Terror and pain merged together into an indistinguishable conglomeration. 

Now, they are all he knows, aside from the cold.

He freezes when he hears footsteps approaching. He has attuned himself to those passing his cell and knows those footsteps as he knows the back of his own hand.

His blood feels like ice, as he hears the words that dismiss the guard outside the door and allow his captor entry.

Pressing his forehead to his knees, his arms tighten over his head, fingertips biting into the back of his neck, as he prays to anyone to spare him from the humiliation and pain. No one listens.

He is alone, rejected, cast down from the pantheon of their society, nothing more than a legend now.

The door squeals open. He wonders briefly if it will earn a blow, if he asks to have it oiled because the squealing unnerves him. The thought of something so trivial makes him shake with silent hysteria.

The light that spills into the cell is sickly, urine-yellow, dull but blindingly bright to the one who is confined in blackness, his eyes burning. Pressing them closed, he hears the two paces that tell him that he is no longer alone in the cell.

His nostrils flare and, beyond his own sour, unwashed stench, he can easily smell the strong scent of power radiating from the wizard standing in the doorway. 

"Look at me," He hears the words whispered in parseltongue, a language that he now sees as more a curse than ever he had before. He knows better than to disobey and knows why his captor uses that language. 

While people don't look into the cell, when he is there, they hear him. Parseltongue ensures that his words will not be understood. He may do - and often does - anything to his prisoner and no one would know.

Trembling, the prisoner raises eyes shielded with a skeletal arm, the brightness making his head ache. He wants to look away, but know it would be folly, his dry tongue rasping across cracked lips.

"M-Master," he whispers the salutation that has been beaten into him.

The wizard whose face is changed by power and experience, stares down at him, as if he is a piece of dirt.

No one else, aside from the prisoner, is aware how close to damnation their leader is, how corrupted he has become by the power in him, changing him into that which he fought so vehemently against. 

There is a coldness and darkness in his eyes that is terrifying, which reveals that his humanity is waning, an expression that only his prisoner witnesses. His smile makes his prisoner tremble and he bows his head, shaking hands pressed to his temples.

"I said look at me," the voice says. "Do you want to be punished?"

"Please... please, don't..."

Smiling, showing no teeth, his captor nears. "Who do you belong to?" he asks, lifting his captive's chin. 

The shivering wreck once known as Lord Voldemort convulses, raising his face to his captor, his features reduced to his teenage appearance when his magic was exorcised. "Y-you, my L-Lord..." 

One of his captor's fingertips brushes his swollen lower lip. "Do you still hate me, Tom?" he asks, as he always does, his poisonously-green eyes taunting. Tom Riddle parts his lips to answer. "Honestly, Tom."

"I-I... I hate you."

"Really?" It is said with amusement.

Tom curls in on himself, shaking, the heels of his hands pressed against his forehead as the choked sobs emerge. 

How does he know? 

How does he know that Tom can not exist without him? 

How does he know that they are so deeply connected, soul, spirit and body, that if he were to be parted from his captor, as much as he hates him, he would die?

His face is forced up again. "The truth, Tom."

"I-I-I n-need you."

Harry Potter smiles, devoid of emotion. "Was that so hard, Tom?" he asks softly, his mouth brushing over Tom's. 

Tom Riddle makes no reply, silent tears sliding down his face as the one whom he introduced to the darkness abuses him once again. 

He knows it is vengeance of the worst kind.


	15. Old Ties

Notes: OY! Its been ages since I've written anything and normally, I could knock one of these stories together in half an hour, but my muse has been somewhat squashed by real life (Yes, people, I am employed and thus, have pretty much no time to write. Ever) but whoo! A chapter none the less :D

__________________________________________

Morning was close at hand. The taste of the new day was fresh upon the air, though the gold of the sun yet had to lick at the faint curls of cloud that still clung petulantly to the horizon.

Not many people liked to be up so early, far too many so lazy that they missed the best part of the day. Most people, she knew, would never have felt the simple pleasure of the morning dew soaking the hem of their robes or heard the voice of the first bird heralding the morning.

Her fingertips sliding down the broad, elegantly-carved balustrade as she descended the broad, granite staircase, she glanced back towards the vast doors, through which she had exited, wondering if anyone would question her absence from her room.

Doubtful, she knew, since no one else would be up for hours and by then, she would be back inside, probably settling down with a book in front of a fire, ignoring anyone who tried to interrupt her or even talk to her, to bid her a good morning. 

Only a few people could and would nowadays, most likely because everyone else had heard of her rare, but spectacular shows of temper.

There was no sign of any life, not even birdsong on the air, which didn't bother her in the least. In fact, she preferred it, no distractions, just time to wander alone and think.

Making her way across the courtyard and onto the silvered grass, she watched the hems of her thick morning robes deepening a little, just as the metallic sheen on the lawn gave way to darkened emerald beneath her feet.

The grounds were vast, every inch of them were hung with the gauzy, silvery mist which clung like a glistening, silken layer upon everything that she could see, the threads of faint mist smeared away by the sun.

How long she had been walking, she couldn't be certain, but the sky was brushed with pastel shades, soft, warm, the first rays of the sun peeking over the horizon.

Passing into the dappling shade of the trees, she hesitated, glancing back. It was growing light and she knew she couldn't stay too far away. She liked this private time and she knew, with the petty, narrow-mindedness of those indoors, they would expect she was meeting someone secretly.

A delicate scowl rumpled her face and she turned to make her way back, when an arm suddenly wrapped about her waist, a second hand clasping over her mouth even as she started to cry out in surprise and fright.

"I thought I might find you here," a frighteningly familiar voice breathed in her ear. "All on your own... what a pity..."

She froze, her nails biting into the hand closed over her mouth, a combination of panic and loathing spreading through her. It couldn't be him! He wasn't even meant to be anywhere near here! No one knew about this little ritual of hers...

Unless he had been watching her with as much suspicion as she had used to watch out for him, as she had for years.

"Now, what could you be doing out here, I wonder... meeting someone, were you?"

Growling in her throat, she tried to bite into the pale, thin hand that was covering her mouth, only for it to jerk harder against her, almost suffocating.

"If I were you," the softly male voice continued, murmuring against her wind-tousled hair. "I would behave. Don't want to make me angry. Not when you haven't got your precious boys to look after you... and they wouldn't even hear you, if you screamed..."

A shudder of involuntary fear skittered down her back and she shook her head. She knew what he could be capable of and she didn't even have her wand. She had never imagined needing it.

"Good girl," his voice rippled against her ear, rough, quiet. 

She was jerked around to face him, the hand dropping from her mouth, that angular, familiar face sending an unwanted thrill through her. He had always been so dangerous, off-limits, _bad_... and that was her weakness.

"I hate you," she hissed, struggling uselessly as he steered her down onto the dewy grass, his deceptively thin body stronger than hers by far. "Why can't you leave me alone?"

A barking laugh fell from his lips. "Still all that bad blood between us?" he smirked at her, his pale features shadowed, the sun spreading behind him. "After everything I did to help your lot?"

"Help?!" she yelped in outrage.

"Well, close enough. Rumours. Nasty things." 

His face was close to hers, his breath stale, the wind whipping fair and dark hair together in a sinister tangle. One hand caught hers, pinning them, captive, together as the other dropped, sliding beneath her dark, heavy morning robes.

"Get off!" she gasped in mortified shock as a rough hand rudely squeezed her bare thigh.

He grinned, hand shifting, curling upwards, drawing an unwanted gasp from her and she tried to squirm away. It didn't help. If anything, it seemed to make matters worse, her eyes pressing shut.

"You really want me to stop, hmm?" he growled against her throat, his breath hot and damp. Even the closeness of his lips to her throat made her shiver, her fingers curling, white-knuckled, wrenching against his bruising grasp.

"You know I do!" She wished she had the nerve or strength to scream it, but they both knew it would be useless. She was too deep in the grounds for anyone to hear her without the aid of magic.

His fingers shifted and she bucked against them. "Something about this tells me you're lying," he chuckled cruelly, his body pressing against hers, as effective a trap as any cage.

"You are sick, perverted son of a..."

"So you have met my mother," he drawled as his hand continued its dogged wandering, claiming every whimper that sputtered from her throat. Grey eyes flashed and he laughed again, that rough sound, when she arched into his touch and bit on her lip to prevent herself from crying out his name. "Knew things hadn't changed..."

Beneath him, she hissed, trying to jerk away from him, his wicked hands and his devilish touch that always seemed to draw the most unwanted of desires from her traitorous body. 

It had been the guilty pleasure of her youth which had hounded her, even into her adulthood.

Blood trickled from her bitten lip and she turned her head away even as he lapped at it, his pale eyes glittering. "Feeling dirty, are you?" he whispered hotly against her throat that she had bared without thought. To the predator, the one who terrified her more than anyone else simply because of the power he held over her lithe, treacherous body. "Have I the more tainted blood... or have you?"

Tears of fury and loathing seeped from beneath her tightly closed eyelids, her teeth gritting together. "Bastard!"

"Now, now," he smirked, running a long, wet lick up her throat. "Even you know that I'm legitimate, as much as you all hate me for it." His canine scraped the taut tendon upon her throat and she thrashed furiously beneath him.

"When the time comes," she hissed, jerking around the glare at him, her gaze like steel. "I won't stop them from killing you."

"Never imagined you would." He grinned down mockingly at her, his hair hanging in disarray about his lean face. "And, until then..." He wriggled his fingers, making her jolt again. "You can be sure I'll be keeping my eye on you."

"Don't put yourself to too much effort," she glowered as he pulled away from her, lazily sprawling back on the grass, letting her adjust her robes with shaking hands, her slim fingers massaging bruised wrists. She managed to stumble onto her feet, staring malevolently down at him as she readjusted her robes.

"Not an effort at all," he replied, still smiling wickedly at her. "Nice to keep up with the family, if you know what I mean."

She hated him more that instant than before.

Somehow, he still managing to summon an air of the casual arrogance he had always embodied despite the state he was in. His hair, though longer than before, swept dashingly over one eye, giving him even more of a devilish look than before and only he could make ragged clothes and skeletal thinness seem attractive.

"You will die," she whispered with certainty, cold and unrelenting. "Like the dog you are."

Rising from the ground, Sirius Black caught his cousin by the arms before she could move and pecked her cheek. "Love you too, Cissa," he said with mock-affection, before transforming into the hideous black beast that was his animagus form and loping off.

Standing on shaking legs, Narcissa watched him go, her nails biting into her palms, hate on her face and she knew that one of their kin would see him dead before the year was out.


End file.
